You and Me
by thimbles
Summary: "For twelve years we've shared clothes and everything else that matters. But now—today—I hate you. So much. I hate you every bit as much as I once loved you." Bella can no longer trust her best friend, but perhaps she's just stumbled across someone she will be able to count on.
1. Chapter 1

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**You and Me.**

* * *

You've been my best friend since kindergarten, since you walked up to me in the playground on our second day of school and said, "I don't like your dress. It looks dumb."

I think you expected me to cry. I looked up at you from the castle I was building in the sandpit, and I saw your dark hair falling over your faded-blackboard colored eyes and the smudge of dirt on your cheek and your fingernails that had once been painted bright blue and I thought you looked like everything I wanted to be.

I told you I didn't like it either, but my Daddy made me wear it. He always made me wear frilly dresses, and I hated them. My closet was full of pink and pastels, frills and ruffles, and I hated it all. I understand, now, that Dad was scared I wouldn't grow up feminine enough, since my Mom ran off and left him the task of raising a little girl.

You had a spare set of clothes in your backpack because your Mom was worried you'd pee your pants or something, so you let me wear them. I still have them, folded away in my bottom draw. Red jeans and a yellow tee-shirt with a picture of a ladybug on it. You pulled them out of your bag, and said, "Here. Wear these." You even held the door shut in the girls' bathroom while I changed because the lock was broken.

The jeans were just a little bit short, because I've always been taller than you, and they clashed horribly with my bright pink sandals, but I'd never felt more comfortable.

After a week of me coming home in your clothes every afternoon, my Dad stopped trying to make me wear dresses to school.

From then on, you were my best friend. For twelve years we've shared clothes and everything else that matters.

But now—today—I hate you. So much. I hate you every bit as much as I once loved you.

Because you knew.

You knew I wanted him. You knew that I've been crushing on him since the sixth grade.

In seventh grade, we'd spent hours lying on my bed, our feet on the wall as our nail polish dried, sighing about him and his friends and how cute they were, wishing they'd pay us attention.

"I'm gonna tell your Dad you like a bo-oy," you'd say, giggling and snorting. "Oh! No, I'm gonna tell Emmett—he's in the same class as him for Math."

I let you tease me because I knew you'd keep my secret. I'd trusted you with all my secrets—like when I wanted to run away and find my Mom, or when Lauren told me my teeth were gross and I cried, or when I stole some of your dad's cigarettes and we smoked them in my backyard when my dad was working late one day.

And you kept it, stored away with every other secret we'd collected together over the years. You told no one.

Just a week ago, you were teasing me about him, whispering into my ear at lunch. "He's a senior now, Izzy," you said. "You gotta do something this year, or you'll regret it. You've gotta make your move or he'll go to college and you'll always wonder 'what if?' "

You teased me in English when you saw his name on the inside cover of my folder, encircled by love hearts and kisses. You threatened to tell Angela, because she'd started dating Ben, and he was friends with him. You wouldn't really—and you didn't.

On Wednesday, you told me we should go to Jess' party on Saturday night. "Emmett's going," you said. "And last night, I heard him and Edward talking about getting some weed, so that means you know who will be there, too."

You helped me out with my dad, inviting me over for a sleepover so we didn't have to lie to him. Well, only a little.

You helped me get ready, too. You made my eyes all pretty with smoky shadows and long black lashes, and you curled my hair just right. You lent me the red denim miniskirt that you knew I'd been coveting, and you cooed encouragements at me.

"You look so hot, Izzy. He's totally going to notice you tonight."

You didn't see my smile as I zipped up your dress.

We spotted him and his friends as soon as we got to Jessica's. They were kicking back in the living room, passing a joint around, their caps backwards, their eyelids droopy.

Edward gave us a lazy wave and you blushed. I elbowed your ribs and giggled.

You hadn't told me yet, but I knew you liked him. I'd seen the way you watched him in the cafeteria, the way your hips swung just a little more whenever we passed him, the way your cheeks flushed like rose petals whenever he came to say hi at lunch. The way your eyes always flicked in his direction as he joked around with us, straddling a backwards chair in that hot teenaged-boy way.

Mike and Eric were mixing drinks in the kitchen. It was my turn to drive, so I grabbed a bottle of water, encouraging you to have whatever they were pouring. "Go for it, Allie," I said.

You did.

Six vodka and cokes, a few hits of a joint, and twelve years of friendship meant nothing to you.

At first, I smiled when I saw you, your lips busy, standing on your tiptoes with your hands in his hair. But then I head Edward shouting and laughing with someone in the kitchen, and it was like the whole room had been flung upside down. My back found the wall as my legs forgot how to hold me up.

I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. Why were your fingers tangled, not in Edward's dark mess of hair, but in sandy blond curls?

In the middle of the living room, he pushed you up against the wall, grinding into you for everyone to see. I watched as you kissed each other hard—drunken, messy kisses punctuated with your curses and his moans.

Right there for everyone to see—for _me_ to see.

Everyone saw when his hand slid up your leg, everyone could tell when his fingers slipped inside your panties. Everyone saw you come, head thrown back, his name on your drunken, slurry lips. Everyone saw you giggling when you stopped and asked me for a condom, when you stumbled your way upstairs, when you took him into Jessica's little sister's bedroom and closed the door.

On Monday morning, everyone else has forgotten.

Everyone else's memories had been wiped clean by the alcohol they chugged, then spent Sunday vomiting back up. Everyone else had forgotten as they nursed their pounding heads and hid their bloodshot eyes from the bright sun that peeked out unexpectedly, like it had turned out only to shine on their shame.

You seem to have forgotten, too.

I haven't, though.

I haven't forgotten how it felt to watch those lips on yours. Those lips I've wanted to kiss since I knew what kissing was. I haven't forgotten how it felt to watch those fingers crawl up your legs, grab at your breasts. The same fingers I've wanted to feel linked through my own since I saw Jessica and Mike holding hands in eighth grade.

I haven't forgotten how my stomach fell right to my feet as your head fell back and your eyes fluttered shut and you came, right there, in a room full of people, with his fingers in your panties.

I haven't forgotten how you stumbled right over to my fallen heart and stomped on it in your stupid black stilettos, when you spotted me leaning against the wall, my fingers splayed against the plasterboard to keep me upright, and dragged him towards me.

I haven't forgotten the fist that squeezed the air from my lungs as I tried to smile when you giggled and slurred and demanded I give you the condom you knew was in the back pocket of my skirt.

"It's not like you'll be needing it, Izzy," you said, your eyelids still droopy with drink and orgasm.

I haven't forgotten the tears that slid down my face like acid on my skin as I watched you lead him up the stairs, knowing you were going to give him your virginity, the way I'd been wanting to since I first understood the appeal of sex.

I haven't forgotten running out the door into the frigid night, needing to get outside before the sobs strangled me. I haven't forgotten the taste of bile in throat, the burn of it in my nostrils as the water I'd been drinking so responsibly choked me and I heaved and shook over Jessica's mom's rose bushes.

I haven't forgotten that I hate you.

* * *

We're leaning against the hood of my car before first period on Monday morning. It's grey and threatening rain. I pull my hood up against the biting wind that's trying to slice its way between our layers of clothing.

"Aw, shit. I was sooo drunk," you tell me, like I don't know. Like I didn't have to watch you lose all your inhibitions and your sense of loyalty. Like I didn't have to watch the vodka wash away your propriety and our friendship.

"I know," I tell you. I throw in a fake giggle.

You should know it's fake, but you're too busy pretending to be embarrassed by your drunkenness. You're shaking your head, but I can see the smirk twisting your lips. "I don't even remember what I did. Did I do anything embarrassing?"

I shrug, casual, like I'm not about to detonate a grenade in your lap. "You hooked up with Jasper."

I enjoy watching your jaw drop, watching your heart try to thump its way out of your mouth. I can see it in your throat, the blue veins pulsing.

Your smirk is gone, your eyes are wide. "By hooked up …"

Does it really matter how you hooked up? Like there's a level of it that would make it okay. Would it be okay if you'd kissed him, as long as there was no tongue? Or if you'd only gone down on him—would that have been less of a knife to my back?

I smile, and wink, stick my elbow in your side. "Well, you made me give you a condom. So, I assume you fucked him."

I like the way my teeth scrape along my bottom lip as I say it. _Fucked._ You fucked him.

You fucked everything.

"Izzy. I … I … Are you sure?" You're close to tears.

I don't give a shit. I want you to hurt.

"He fingered you in the living room, against the wall. Then you took him upstairs to Jess' sister's bedroom. So, yeah, I'm pretty sure."

You're shaking your head, those big, pretty grey-green eyes filling with saltwater.

"Iz …I don't … I didn't mean … I don't remember."

My shoulders lift up and drop down, like I'm shaking your cares off. _Don't put them on me_, my shoulder say.

Your face is white, and your fingers are curled in balls. I imagine your fingernails splitting the skin of your palms, while I watch your bottom lip tremble and shake.

"I … I had sex … when I was drunk." Your hands start pulling at your hair, messing it up, mocking all that time you spent straightening it before school.

Your head is shaking, and I think your hands are, too. "I—" you're whispering now, "—I'm not … not a virgin anymore."

I shrug again, bouncing your hurt straight off me.

If it had been with anyone else, my arms would be around you. I'd be holding you while you cried, stroking your hair and whispering quiet comfort.

Part of me wants to. Twelve years can't be wiped away in one day, and it's instinct for me to hurt when you do.

But then I see him heading our way, and hurting for you just makes me hate you more.

He gives us a smile, straight white teeth flashing between pink lips. "Hey, girls."

Looks like he's forgotten, too.

"Hey, Isabella, Alice." Edward grins as he swaggers past, throwing his arm across Jasper's shoulder. He tosses a wink in our direction, and even with your sheet-white pallor, I see the pink sweep down your cheekbones.

The breath is slammed out of me, and like a migraine coming on fast, my head pounds and aches from the force of the idea that's just supernovaed in my brain.

I look back at you, and all I can see is you up against that wall with his mouth on yours, his hips grinding between your legs.

They say one of the hardest things you'll ever have to do is watch the one you love love someone else. Thanks to you, I know exactly why they say that.

Thanks to me, you're about to find out, too.

Your voice—soft and even more familiar to me than my father's—draws me out of my mind.

"Izzy? Why didn't you stop me?" You sniffle, then wipe your nose with your sleeve. "I mean … why didn't y –"

You trail off when my eyes find yours.

It's in that moment, when you see the flash of pain and anger in my eyes, the way my teeth are clenched so tight together, that I think you realize that you didn't just fuck Jasper. You've fucked me—you've fucked _us_, too.

"Izzy –"

My eyebrow lifts as you start again. "Alice?"

You flinch away from the ice in my voice, your lip between your teeth, your eyes dark with regret and the tears you're still trying not to give in to.

"I'm sorry."

You mean it. I can hear the pain and honesty in your voice.

I give you honesty in return. "I know."

"Are we … are we going to be okay? Izzy? I mean, I was really drunk and …"

I bite down on my tongue so I don't laugh in your face.

"Yeah, Alice," I say, and the bitterness in my voice is so thick I can taste it. "We're going to be just fine."

* * *

In Chemistry, I drop my books on Mike's table.

"Go be Lauren's partner," I tell him.

Mike's eyes are wide, but he doesn't argue. He collects his crap and takes my usual seat.

Edward looks surprised as I hoist myself onto the stool beside him, but he winks at me.

"Hey." His smile is easy. "This is a pleasant surprise."

I tuck my hair behind my ears, smiling up at him. "Oh, really?"

He grins, puts his lips beside my ear. "Yeah, you're much prettier than Mike."

This is going to be too easy.

Laughing, I shake my head at him. "Newton's not your type?"

"Is Newton anyone's type?" He asks, his voice low.

I snicker. "Well, he doesn't do it for me."

His breath is warm by my ear. It smells of truancy and cigarettes. "You're not into blonds?"

Cold trickles down my spine, and it takes everything in me to keep my smile wide. "I used to be."

"And now?" The spark in his blue-green eyes tells me I'm playing with fire.

Inhaling through my nose, I upend a can of gasoline on it. I turn my head so that my mouth is close to his ear, so he can feel _my_ breath against his skin. "Edward? Am I really not being obvious enough?"

He pulls back, a smirk curling his lips. His hand finds my jean-clad thigh and I fight the urge to stiffen and move away. His fingers are long, grasping, so unlike Jasper's thick, callused ones, the ones I've fantasized about having on my skin. His grip reaches the entire way across my leg, and his fingertips flex ever so slightly, pushing into the softness of my inner thigh.

I take a deep breath, trying to relax into his touch. From the corner of my eye, I see his cheek drop as the smirk fades. He frowns, a dark, brooding look crossing over his features.

When the bell rings for the end of the period, Edward's voice is in my ear again. "You're so full of shit, Isabella. But I'll play."

Before I remember how to speak, his hand is on my elbow and he's tugging me from the lab. I let him lead me outside, pulling my hood up against the fine rain that's misting across the quad.

He relinquishes his grip on me once we're behind the gym. He lights two cigarettes and hands me one, raising an eyebrow in challenge when I hesitate. I take it, and as I pull the acrid smoke into my lungs, a sharp thrill of adrenaline shoots through me.

I watch Edward for a moment, his face upturned as he breathes out blue-grey smoke, then turn my head away, my back pressed against the cold brick wall.

"You gonna to tell me what this is about?"

I don't look at him, bringing the cigarette to my lips. I exhale, flicking the ash that's gathering at the glowing tip. "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head. "On Friday afternoon, you're looking at Jazz like he's the hottest fucking guy you've ever seen—like he's the only guy you see." His laugh is bitter. "An hour ago, you suddenly decide you're into me. What gives?"

He steps toward me, towers over me as my spine presses into the bricks. He lowers his head, and I think he's going to kiss me.

He doesn't.

"Is this about Brandon hooking up with Jasper?"

"Fucking Jasper." I correct him before I realize what he's said.

He knows—he hasn't forgotten.

He chuckles and the sound rolls through the bottom of my stomach. He steps away from me, leans against the wall beside me, his face upturned to the rain again.

"They didn't fuck."

My head turns towards him so fast that I graze my cheek on the rough brick. "What did you say?"

He shakes his head. There's something I can't identify in his eyes as he grimaces. "I saw you bolt outside, saw them heading up the stairs. Brandon was completely wasted, and I knew Jazz'd feel like shit if he fucked her while she was that messed up." He sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. "I was gonna stop them, but by the time I got up there they were both fucking passed out, anyway."

His lips wrap around the cigarette, while shock, anger and … relief cascade through me. My hands are shaking as I take another drag, holding the smoke in my lungs until they start to burn. I exhale and shake my head.

"You're sure?"

"Yep."

The cigarette between my lips, I dig my phone out of my pocket. As much as I hate you right now, you need to know the truth. You didn't toss away your virginity in a drunken mess.

I send you a quick text. It's probably the first I've ever sent you that isn't punctuated with smiley faces and love hearts. It's not a peace offering.

_**Edward says you passed out before you could fuck Jasper.**_

I say the words over in my mind as they're delivered to you via radio waves, and the tightness in my chest dissolves with the acidic anger that bubbles through me.

The words—the truth—free me to hate you. They let me relinquish the worry I haven't been able to shake. It's easier now. The tiny voice in my head questioning your ability to have given informed consent is silenced. You didn't fuck him.

But you would have.

I flick the cigarette onto the ground, my toe grinding it into the concrete, the same way you did my heart.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, and copy Edward's pose, looking skyward. The rain mists across my face, and I shut my eyes to try and keep the burning tears from spilling over.

The pressure is building inside, and it erupts suddenly, exploding out of me. I spin on my heel and slam my fist into the brick wall. Pain shoots up my arm, and before I can repeat the action, Edward's arm is around my waist and he's holding me tight while I scream and curse.

I call you everything I can think of, screaming to the wind and rain how much I fucking hate you, while Edward holds me against his body. The warmth of him is pressed against my back as my arms and fists try to make contact with the unforgiving brick. I want—_need_—that pain. I need to turn the hurt that's flowing like poison through my veins into something real, something physical. Bruises and scrapes and broken knuckles are preferable to the feel of acid-hate corroding me from the inside out.

Edward is stronger than me, and more stubborn, too. He holds me tighter as I fight harder against his restraint. I can feel him talking to me, feel the vibrations of his speech rolling through his chest and into mine, but I can't hear him over the shrieks and half-words of rage that are clawing their way out of my throat.

I'm hysterical, hot tears are streaking down my face, and I can't get enough air into my lungs.

Edward spins me round, one hand behind my head as he pins me to the brick wall with his body. His other hand is on my cheek, his smoky breath washes over me as I continue to gasp and shake.

"Isabella! Fucking breathe, all right?" His sea-green eyes flash with panic. "Breathe!"

"I'm … I'm … I'm …" I can't get the words out. _I'm trying._

His eyes close with pain as he holds me against the wall. "Calm down. Please. I don't want to slap you, Izzy. Come on. Breathe."

He drops his forehead to mine, and I can feel his breath on my lips. I focus on it. My eyes close tight, and each time I feel the warm air from his lungs on my face, I gasp it in, like I'm trying to pull his ability to breathe inside of me.

And then it's quiet.

Just him breathing, and me grasping at his breath.

He groans in relief.

He makes to step back but I grab his sweater, holding him tight against me.

"Shhh," he whispers. "It's okay. You're okay."

It's not, and I'm not, but I let him comfort me.

He maneuvers us carefully, pulling me down into his lap as he sits, his back against the wall.

"I'm sorry." I say the words against his chest, ashamed to meet his eyes.

"Don't worry 'bout it." He pats my shoulder. His voice is tight. "You really liked him, huh?"

I don't say anything. I don't think he expects me to.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, his hand occasionally rubbing up and down my spine.

My eyelids are getting heavy when he suddenly speaks, surprising me. "Can I ask you something?"

I nod.

"I mean, I get that Alice hurt you. Like, you liked him a lot, and she was going to screw him 'cause I wouldn't kiss her. But, I mean … do you even _know_ him?"

I pull back, easing myself out of his lap. I sit beside him, back to the brick wall and he lights two more cigarettes. The bell rings again, but neither of us make any effort to move.

The rain has stopped. I pull my hood off, and tuck the humidity-induced curls behind my ears.

Edward's question makes me uncomfortable. I want to tell him to fuck off, but he's already set the cogs of my mind in motion.

_Do I even know him?_

I know I like the color of his eyes, and the shape of his smile. I know I like the curve of his bicep and the way his jeans sit on his hips. I know I like it when he winks at me, and the way he and Edward laugh at their lunch table, heads thrown back, eyes squinting.

But I've never said more than half a sentence to him. I don't know what music he likes or what he wants to do when he finishes school. I don't know whether he likes spring or fall, or where he goes when he's pissed off.

I don't know a fucking thing about him.

"Not really," I admit, finally. "I don't know." I breathe in more smoke, then blow it into the breeze.

"I've been crushing on him since like, sixth grade." I shrug, scratching at my neck. "Since then, I dunno … It's just been like … I mean, to be honest, I can't even think of one real conversation I've had with him."

Edward laughs, but it's sharp and kind of bitter sounding. He shakes his head and brings the cigarette to his lips.

My heartbeat quickens suddenly. "Edward?"

"Mmm."

My voice is tight, low. "Did you say you wouldn't kiss Alice?"

He heaves a sigh, his hand diving back into his hair. "Uh … yeah."

"You wanna explain that?"

"Not really," he mutters.

My phone chimes then. It's a text from you.

_**Yeah, I figured, but thanks for telling me. I left after second period and came home. I found the condom in the pocket of my dress, unopened. I'm sorry, Iz.**_

I don't reply.

"I think you need to tell me, Edward."

He tucks his knees up, his head between them. "Brandon found me and Jazz hanging in the kitchen. She was tipsy, but not too messy at that stage. She was all flirty and touchy and shit."

He shakes his head, still directing his mumbles to the ground. "She wanted to hook up, and I told her I wasn't interested."

I feel a little twinge but I stomp on it. I don't want to feel sorry for you.

"And …" I prompt.

He looks up at me, frowning. "And you know what happened. She drank a shitload of vodka, then hooked up with Jazz."

That doesn't sound like you. You wouldn't just decide to hook up with someone else—Jasper least of all—after being rejected. You've been crushing on Edward for months now, and you know—you knew—how I felt about Jasper.

I squint at Edward, who looks away.

There's something missing. A step of logic that's been skipped somewhere.

"You're not telling me everything."

He shakes his head. "It's not worth it, Izzy. Trust me, you don't want to know."

I'm too exhausted from screaming to raise my voice. "Fucking tell me."

He's quiet for a long time. Until he's finished his cigarette and stabbed it viciously into the concrete. When he looks at me, his eyes are weary, defeated.

"I told Alice I wouldn't hook up with her 'cause I had feelings for someone else."

So … what? You were hurt, and you wanted to make me hurt, too? You wanted me to know how you felt, knowing the guy you liked wanted someone else.

_The hardest thing you'll ever have to do is watch the one you love love someone else. _

I shake my head.

But why? Why did you have to make _me_ feel it, too? Why did you need me to hurt?

Have I not been there for you when you needed me? Have I not cared deeply enough for you? Have I not stood by your side every single day for twelve fucking years?

What did I do wrong?

And then I understand, like the final puzzle piece has slotted into place, and I can see the whole picture.

I look at Edward out of the corner of my eye. His eyes are on the ground, his shoulders slumped as his hand claws it's way through his hair. His long fingers fist it, twisting it into its usual mess.

I think about those fingers sprawled across my thigh under our Chemistry bench, curling around his cigarette, rubbing warmth into my spine.

I stretch out my knuckles, feeling the sting as the scrapes on my skin stretch and contract.

Edward frowns, and reaches for my hand. He makes me curl it up into a fist, then stretch it out again.

His voice is quiet. "I don't think you'd be able to move it that easy if you'd broken anything. Probably just bruised. Ice might be a good idea, though."

He heaves himself to his feet. "Wait here, okay?"

I nod, mute.

I close my eyes, and the whole weekend replays in Technicolor behind my eyelids.

Edward turned you down. Because he likes me.

And you—you decided in a fit of jealousy that the last twelve years meant nothing?

You just _had_ to make me feel the rejection and hurt you did.

When Edward reappears, a baggie full of ice in his hands, I can't help but smile. "Thanks."

He shrugs, his fingers in his hair again. "No problem."

He sits down beside me, his legs crossed awkwardly. He takes my injured hand, pulls my cuff up to cover it, and sets the ice against it. "You gonna be okay?"

I shrug. "I guess."

"I'm sure you and Brandon'll sort stuff out," he says, the roughness of his voice contrasts his gentle words.

"I don't think I want to," I tell him. "Sort things out, I mean. It's not because of Jasper." I hurry the words out as he opens his mouth to interrupt me, his brow creased. "It's Alice. I mean, she … what? You turned her down and she decided to hurt me? She decided our friendship meant less than her pride, so fuck it. I'm done."

I don't know Edward. Not really.

I don't know what he wants to do when he leaves school, or how well he gets on with Rosie, his little sister. I don't know what his parents do, or what kind of music he listens to when he's pissed off. I don't know if he reads, or if he spends his afternoons playing video games, or if he has a part time job.

But I do know what his breath tastes like, and how his voice sounds when he's close to panicking. I know he doesn't let his friends make stupid, drunken mistakes, and I know he won't hook up for the hell of it.

I know he's cutting class to sit with a slightly unhinged, hysterical girl who probably has streaks of mascara staining her face, and that I'd probably be needing to visit the ER if he hadn't stopped me from slamming my fist into the wall a second time.

I don't know him, not well. But in the last hour, he's made me want to.

I nod, mostly to myself. We're done, you and me.

You threw us away, jealous and hurt, and you know what? I'm fucking glad. If it was that easy for you to throw the last twelve years in my face—I don't want twelve more years as your friend. I don't want twelve more minutes as your friend.

I pull my phone out again, and I type you one last text.

_**Thank you.**_

I turn to Edward. He's still holding the ice to my knuckles, but his eyes are seeing things a million miles away.

"You wanna get out of here?"

He blinks at me, before a small smile curves his lips. "Sure."

* * *

**A/N: This is just a bit of randomness I wrote for the Season of Our Discontent Anonymous Angst Contest. I may make it a two-shot, eventually, but we'll see.**

**Thanks to BelieveItOrNot, who spends such a lot of time helping me improve my writing. She's the best.**

**Shell x**


	2. Chapter 2

_**You and Me, continued.**_

* * *

**Edward**

The ice under my fingers is so cold it hurts. I don't mind—it gives me a reason to hold your hand. I'm cradling it really, holding it in both of mine like it's made of glass. Maybe it's kind of lame, but I've wanted to hold your hand for a long time. I mean, I'd like to do a hell of a lot more than hold your hand, I'm not a total pussy. But holding your hand feels pretty fucking cool right now.

Back against the brick wall of the gym, you're fiddling with your cell phone, tapping away one handed. Texting Brandon, I suspect. I'm wondering what you could possibly have to say to her as I lift the ice away to check your grazed and swollen knuckles. Dark bruises are forming, black and purple against your pretty white skin—they're going to be really painful for a couple of days.

Looking at your injured hands makes me think about stopping you from punching the wall, which makes me think about holding you tight, my arms around your waist, our faces close, your breath on my lips.

At the time, it was just reaction, instinct. I needed you to be calm. But now, when I can see that you're okay, it does things to me, the memory of your body lined up with mine pulsing through my mind in high definition and surround sound. My stomach flip-flops, and I'm starting to think it might be time to start mentally reciting baseball stats or whatever when your voice startles me.

"You wanna get out of here?"

I blink at you, 'cause, yeah, I'm pretty surprised.

"Sure." There's nothing I'd like more than to spend time with you.

I let go of your hand while you get to your feet. I take the chance to shove my hand in my pocket, adjusting myself, hoping like hell you don't notice.

Even though you could tend to your injury yourself, I take your hand again, and you let me, again. "You should keep this on," I say, pushing the ice against your knuckles. You wince, but you try not to let me see it.

"Maybe we should take you to the hosp–"

"No way."

I don't push it, because I can think of better ways to spend our time together than sitting in the ER. Nodding, I throw both our bags over my shoulder, and you lead me to your car. Your eyebrows lift when I open the hand not holding yours, palm out.

"What?"

"Keys?"

"I can drive."

I roll my eyes, stepping closer to you. "No way."

You huff a little, and my lips stretch into a smile, because I know you're conceding. "They're in my bag. Front pocket."

Making sure you're keeping the ice in place, I release your hand. I'm already wondering when I'll get to hold it—or you—again.

Rifling through a girl's bag freaks me out a little, but you don't seem fazed as I dig for your keys among all the shit you keep in there. You've got a ton of coins in there, scraps of paper, hair bands and—_shit_—tampons. I duck my head in case I'm blushing, a tiny sigh escaping me as my fingers finally close around your keys.

I click the fob-button, and open your door. Even though I kind of like it, holding open the door for you like we're on a date, I make it a joke, sweeping my arm out, over-acting. It makes you giggle, and your giggle makes me smile. You fumble with the seatbelt, and I hurry to buckle you in, enjoying the closeness as I lean over you.

The ends of your hair tickle my cheek as I press closer to you than I really need to. If I turn my head, I could kiss you—or check out your tits. I do neither. Pulling back, I swing your door closed and walk to the driver's side.

"Slow the fuck down, idiot." I have to remind myself that only a few hours ago, you were all torn up over Jasper hooking up with Alice. As much as I want you—want _us_—I know it's not going to happen today. And maybe not anytime soon, either. But that's okay; I can wait. Something tells me it'll be worth my while.

* * *

"You'll need to direct me to your place," I tell you as I pull out of the school lot.

"Take a left at the end of Main," you say. I glance at you, but your gaze is trained out the window.

When I pull up at the curb in front of your house, you don't move. Belt still buckled, eyes on the windshield, you sigh. "How are you gonna get home?"

"Uh." I have no idea, I didn't really think that far ahead. "It's cool, I can walk." Or walk around the corner and call my Dad to come get me, more likely.

Raindrops start to splatter against the windshield. Big fat drops that burst outwards on contact with glass, making the greens and greys beyond it blur until it looks like one of those old French paintings my mom likes so much.

"Don't be stupid." You look at me, just the start of a smile curving your lips. "I'll drive you home in a couple of hours."

"Oh, it's – I mean, I can–" I glance at your house, wondering if your old man is home. I can't imagine he'd be too excited to see us hanging out. I don't have a history with him. I've kept myself under his radar, but I'm not going to lie, the dude scares the shit out of me. I think it's the moustache—that or the gun on his hip.

You groan. Maybe I look worried, or maybe you're used to people being terrified of your father. "My Dad won't be home 'til much later. Come on. We'll just watch a movie or something, and I'll bring you home once my hand's feeling a bit better."

I want to spend time with you, so I agree. You still haven't moved, your injured hand lying in your lap, the bag of mostly-melted ice resting on top of it. Your hands in your lap remind me of my fingers stretched across your thigh under our lab table, my fingertips itching, burning to crawl a few more inches …

"Edward? I can't – can you help me out, please?"

My cheeks heat and I jump out of the car, hoping the cold wind can either cool or explain away my blush.

* * *

We're halfway through _Snatch_, squashed close on the faded dark green couch, when your cell phone rings. I grin when I hear your ringtone, adding "epic taste in music" to the list of things I really like about you.

You don't seem too pleased to hear The Rubens rockin' out, though. You frown at the screen for a moment, before hanging up on whoever was calling. You tap at your phone a few times and throw it on the coffee table, offering me half a smile before you turn your attention back to the movie.

It's only about three seconds later that it starts buzzing, moving across the wood as it rings. Brandon's smiling face flashes on the screen, but you don't even look at it.

"Are you gonna–"

"Nope." Your lips press tight, and my heart sinks a little bit. I know you're upset with her, of course. But it's _why_ you are that has me fidgeting in my seat. Is it because she's a shitty friend who hooked up with a guy you were crushing on, or because—despite your admission that you don't really know him—you really, _really_ wanted to get with Jasper?

"I'm done with her," you say, surprising the hell out of me. At your next words, I have this weird thought that maybe you can read my mind or something. "I mean, it was just a dumb crush, I guess." You shrug. "But she was supposed to be my best friend."

I nod. "That sucks." I don't really know what else to say.

You look over at me, eyes full of tears that you're trying to hold back. My hand pushes against my chest, rubbing where it feels tight.

"Twelve years. And she just throws it all in my face because her pride is wounded when you turned her down. Fuck that. If I was that easy to throw away, then I don't need her, you know?"

"Uh, sure." I'm nervous. I don't really know how girls think about this kind of stuff, and the last thing I want to do is upset you.

You look at me, lip caught between your teeth. You seem to be weighing up something. "Like, if you knew Jasper liked Alice, you wouldn't hook up with her, right? I mean, you didn't. She offered, and you turned her down."

_Because you're the only one I want to kiss,_ I think. "I, uh, I'd never go after a girl a friend liked." There, that works.

"And Jasper likes Alice, so you turned her down."

"Uh." I push my hand through my hair. "Yes." It comes out sounding like a question. "I mean, he's not like … well, I mean, yeah, I guess he kind of likes her, but I wouldn't have – with her, even if he didn't."

Your cheeks go a bit pink, and I think you're hearing what I'm not saying. I shrug, because I do like you, and I think you figured that out earlier, anyway. You frown then, and my stomach turns over. Does it bother you, knowing that? My knee bounces.

"He kind of likes her? He's not like, really into her?"

I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. "It's Jazz." I shrug, hoping you know what I mean.

You look at me, waiting for me to say more. Fuck. I push my fingers through my hair—which is totally gross and really needs a wash.

"Jasper. Well, he likes … everyone." _If they're putting out._

"Everyone?"

_Shit, Bella._ I look at my shoes then back up at you. "Girls, I mean. He likes girls." I fold my arms over my chest, my eyebrows lifting, hoping you won't make me say the words. I'm under no delusion about Jasper's … quirks, but he's still my friend.

"Oh." Your nose crinkles like something smells bad.

"Yeah."

You sigh, your fingers move into your hair, combing through it, pulling it off your face. I watch as you twist it and tie it in a knot on top of your head, like it's a piece of rope. It stays there. "That's pretty cool." I can't believe I said that, or that I'm pointing at your hair. I'm such a tool.

But you smile, and suddenly I don't mind so much. "Useful, right?"

I nod. "For sure."

Your eyes drift back to the movie, and I'm weirdly disappointed. Usually I hate people talking through films, but somehow I don't think it'd even bother me if you wanted to chat while I was watching _The Departed_—and I love that movie hard.

* * *

When you drop me home several hours later, your right wrist resting gingerly on the steering wheel as you drive, I'm pretty disappointed that our time together is going to end. I wonder what tomorrow will look like—if you'll still flash that shy smile my way, and still want to talk to me about all the bands we've just discovered we both like. Will you want to argue with me about the movies I like that you think are total crap, or let me tease you about your surprising love of musical theatre?

I'm fiddling with the strap of my backpack when you pull into my driveway, my fingers rubbing over the worn stitching. I glance at your bruised hand, angry red and deep purple, and it makes my stomach twist a little. "Are you gonna–" I swallow down the rasp in my voice "–be okay to drive back home?"

You tip your head, your knot of hair bobbling around on top of your head. "I got you here, didn't I?" There's a sweet little smile playing on your lips that doesn't quite match your sarcastic words.

I nod, eyes on the backpack in my lap. "True."

"Hey."

I look up, and your smile has stretched wider. Fuck, I want to kiss you. _Too soon, way too soon,_ I tell myself.

You turn in the driver's seat, your uninjured hand reaching across your body to land on my forearm. "Thanks, Edward."

I nod, my eyes on your hand. I push away the nerves that make me feel like an army of ants is marching to war across my skin, and cover your fingers with mine. "Any time." I want to say so much more, but I don't.

You eyes drop to our hands for a beat, and rise back up to mine. You lick your lips, and then I feel your fingers tighten and your weight shifting. You use my arm for leverage, moving close, and then your lips are on my cheek, just for a moment. Then they're gone.

"Uh." I blink. And nod. "Yeah. Thank you." _Did I just–? Aww, fuck._

I can see the laugh you're holding in, your lips pressed together, your eyes dancing. I shake my head, my cheeks burning with your kiss and my embarrassment.

"Hey," another squeeze of your fingers, "anytime."

* * *

I didn't think you meant it literally.

But you've kissed my cheek eighteen times in the last three weeks. I know how fucking lame it is that I've counted them, collecting them like baseball cards, but I can't really bring myself to care.

We hang out a lot now. Aside for sitting beside each other in Chemistry, we eat lunch together—or more correctly, we skip out on lunch and sit in my car, playing music, talking, teasing each other. Sometimes we smoke, but usually only when you're in a really pissy mood.

Like now.

You startle the hell out of me, pulling open the rear door and throwing your bag onto the back seat. While you're slamming it shut, I lean across and push the passenger door open for you. It doesn't really surprise me when you hurl yourself into the car then, your eyes narrowed and a string of curses falling from your lips.

"Fucking asshole … stupid fucker doesn't even … college-educated and … dumbass …"

I think you're pissed about the grading of that English paper you handed in last week. I watched you write it, pretending to work on my own.

I reach across, groping in the glove box for the pack of cigarettes I keep there. While I'm close, I kiss your cheek. I haven't kissed your cheek as often as you've kissed mine—it took me until number twelve to get the balls to give you one back. I plan on making us even.

You sigh while my lips are against the softness of your cheek, and it makes me feel pretty freaking good.

I'm back in my seat, holding out the smokes to you.

You shake your head and I shrug, setting the pack on the dash.

"You go ahead," you say.

I glance at you but don't reach for a cigarette. Your eyes are closed, your head tipped back against the headrest. My eyes on your neck, I shift in my seat. I want to press my lips to that spot just below your ear, trail them down to your collarbone. _Fuck._ You're so damned sexy, and I don't think you have any idea. No, it's more that you do know, but you just don't care. You don't shy away from it, but you don't seem to flaunt it either.

You open one eye, turning your head towards me. Your lips curl. "Go ahead."

Something in my brain malfunctions. With my thoughts so focused on feeling your skin beneath my lips, my fingertips, I stupidly think you're reading my mind and giving me permission.

My nose is in your hair, my lips pressing kiss after kiss to your neck, my tongue tasting your skin before my mind catches up with me and I freeze. _Oh shit._

But you—you tilt your head, like you're asking for more, and then you sigh, and the sound is like a spark, and I'm a tank of gasoline.

My hand is in your hair, pulling you closer, my mouth moving down your neck. Tugging your t-shirt out of the way, I kiss across your shoulder. I breathe deep through my nose, and then I'm kissing my way across your collarbone, and my scalp is stinging.

"Fuck. Edward."

My nose is so close, so close to your cleavage, when I realize the sting is your fingers twisting in my hair, and you're trying to pull me up, away from your boobs.

I look up at you, my heart thumping somewhere in my stomach.

"I'm s–"

You cut me off, slamming your mouth against mine. I swallow your groan, and then all I'm aware of is your lips, your tongue, and the little grunts that punctuate the best fucking kiss I've ever had. They could be coming from you, or me, but I can't focus enough to figure that out.

Your hands slide around out of my hair, across my shoulders, and you're tugging at me, until I'm leaning halfway across the car with the gearshift jammed against my hip and my hand on your thigh, and you're still trying to pull me closer.

"Bella–"

"Unnnh."

Fuck it. The discomfort is totally worth it.

I kiss you harder, deeper, sliding the hand that's on your thigh up to your hip, my fingers curling around its curve. You pry it off, and you're moving it towards your breast, and my fingers are twitching, and I'm so close to feeling you –

"Wooooo! Yeah, man!"

We freeze, but don't leap apart like we would if we were in a movie. We just pull back a little, just a whisper, like there's just one word between us. I don't know who's carrying on outside, or if it was even us they were yelling at. Our noses inches apart, I'm looking at you, and you're looking at me, and we're smiling and nothing outside this car even seems real.

"We should –"

My breath kind of stops halfway up my throat as I wait for you to finish.

"–get out of here."

I nod, my nose rubs against yours with the movement. You kiss me once more, just quickly, our lips barely brushing, and then you're back in your seat, and I'm already reaching for the ignition.

* * *

Making out with you is immediately addictive. And the more we do it, the more I want, well, _more_.

But after four months of doing this, I still don't know what we're doing, and that makes me hesitate, hold back a little.

I know what your kisses taste like. I know what your hands feel like creeping under my shirt. I know what your nipples feel like against my palms, and as of yesterday afternoon, I know what it feels like to have your hands on me, there.

I want more. I want my hands on you, there. I want to know what you look like, coming apart, and the way we're going, I'll get my wish soon. We're tumbling headfirst towards naked skin and tangled bed sheets and I want it as much as I don't.

Not until I know what this all means to you, anyway. Maybe it's super lame on my part, but we're getting closer and closer, and I want to know what this means to you—what we mean to you.

Because I want you, all of you. But not if it means nothing to you.

* * *

We're eating in the cafeteria for a change. I get there before you and claim a table.

"Hey."

Your hand on my shoulder, I tilt my face up for a kiss, and you oblige—maybe a little more so than is entirely appropriate in the cafeteria, which makes me smirk as you slide into the chair beside mine.

"How was Physics?"

I shrug. "Easy." I wink at you. "But my lab partner in Chem is way hotter."

"Hotter than Eric?" You giggle. "Is that even possible?"

Under the table, I pinch your thigh, laughing when you squeal. "Brat."

You poke your tongue out at me as you pull your lunch out of your bag, and it takes a whole lot of effort for me not to groan when I see what you set on the table. But I bite my tongue—literally—because I know that shit is your favorite, and I don't want to make you feel bad again. Making out with you is probably my favorite thing to do, but when you've eaten that stuff … well, it's less enjoyable, anyway.

But then, you unwrap the greaseproof paper.

"You put raspberries in it?" I don't think they'll cover the foul taste of banana.

You giggle, breaking off a piece and holding it out to me with a mischievous smile.

"Uh, thanks, but ..." I hold my hands up, like I'm trying to ward off evil—and let's face it, I am. "I don't think they'll help."

You roll your eyes and sigh. "Edward, just smell it. Does it smell like Satan's death fruit to you?"

I smile at you using my name for bananas, and because I don't think you'd lie to me, I sniff the piece of loaf in your hand. "What is it?"

"Pear and raspberry bread."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why did you – I mean, I'm not complaining, but you love the banana stuff. Isn't it your favorite?"

You shrug, taking a bite of the dense-looking loaf. You swallow and smile at me, and my stomach is doing that funny thing that has nothing to do with the fact I'm hungry, and everything to do with the way your eyes seem to shine when you smile at me like that. "Maybe I like you more than I like banana bread."

* * *

When I see you talking to Alice, your back against a row of lockers, my spine stiffens. It feels like icy fingers are creepy-crawling their way from my tailbone to the base of my skull.

It's not that it's Alice, not exactly. It's the way your shoulders are curled in and you're hunched around the books you're carrying. The way you're looking at your shoes, tapping the toe of one against the other. It's the way you're letting your hair fall forward over your eyes, and you're not even trying to push it out your face.

I jog up the hall, telling myself I have to find out what's going on first, before I say something rude to Alice.

As soon as I'm close enough, my arm is around your waist, sliding it between your back and the lockers. With my other hand I'm tucking your hair behind your ear. My lips by your ear, I ask if you're okay. You nod, and I kiss your cheek.

I look at Brandon then. Her eyes are narrowed, her lips pressed thin—until she catches me watching her. It's kind of bizarre actually, how quickly her shoulders jerk back and her boobs push out, and the way the sour expression on her face morphs into the sweetest smile.

"Hey, Edward." Her left hand rubs the top of her thigh.

I don't answer Alice, because all my attention is back on you, feeling you stiffen in my arms. Your knuckles are white around the books you're holding to your chest like a shield.

"What's going on?" I murmur the question against your neck.

"I mean, I guess you haven't fucked him yet? 'cause you know–" she waves her hand around, pointing at her leg again.

I ignore Alice because it's obvious she's trying to get a reaction, and I'm not into that kind of bullshit. But when I see your face has gone as white as the ceiling, and I feel you shaking a little, my stomach drops to somewhere near my knees.

"Alice?"

Her eyes dart to mine, her smirk widening into another one of her too-big smiles. "Yes, Edward?" Her voice is fucking annoying, too. I think she's trying for sexy, but she sounds more like she's got something caught in her throat.

"Get lost."

She blinks. I laugh, and I can feel you relax into me just a little.

"Excuse me?"

I ignore her, pulling you with me as I turn away from her. "Come on, you."

Alice is flinging words at us as we walk away, but I don't even hear her. I'm used to tuning out Dora the Explorer—even Alice Brandon isn't _that_ annoying. _I'm the map, I'm the ma– fuck._

You don't speak until we're at the car. "Bitch."

"You wanna tell me about it?"

You sigh, dumping your books on the roof and tugging your sweater over your sleeves. "Jasper dumped her, again."

"Right." I've lost count of how many times they've hooked up and broken up now. My hands on your waist, I turn you until your back is pressed against the car. "So she's taking it out on you, again."

You nod, your teeth scraping over your bottom lip. "She's got twelve years of ammunition."

"Babe?" You look up at me, and I can see the tears you're trying not to cry. "It sucks. And it's complete bullshit that she seeks you out every time she's feeling like crap. But one day she'll learn that she can't – I don't know, she'll figure out that making you feel bad isn't going to make her feel any better about herself."

You say nothing for so long I'm starting to shift my weight from foot to foot, worrying that I've said something really stupid. But then you shake your head. "That's one of the most insightful things I've ever heard."

"Surprised?" I chuckle and duck my head, wanting my lips on yours.

You stop me though, pressing your fingertips against my mouth. "Edward?"

"Mmm."

"I have a really big birthmark. On my thigh."

Alice's not-so-subtle gestures suddenly make sense. I pull your hand away from my mouth, tangling my fingers with yours. "'Kay."

"It's really big—like the size of my hand. And it's really dark. Red, I mean."

I let go of your hand and pull my shirt up, twisting around so you can see my side. "I have this mole here. It grows hairs out of it. Really long, thick ones that almost look like pubes. Totally gross, so I cut them off."

You look at me for a few moments, eyebrows up high, lips twitching as they fight a smile. They lose. "Okay."

I kiss the corner of your smile. I'm about to ask if you want to cut Calculus when a familiar voice calls our names.

I look over the roof of the car at Jasper, jerking my head in greeting.

"S'up, Jazz?"

"Party. My place. Tomorrow."

_Who parties on a Thursday?_ "Can't, man. Rosie's got ballet."

"Come after that."

I shake my head. He knows that's not going to happen—Monday and Thursday Rosie has dance classes, and we eat dinner and hang out as a family afterwards. Jasper knows this.

"Loser. You're gonna come, right?" He winks at you, an all too familiar smirk on his face. I want to punch it right off. "Isabella?"

Pink sweeps across your cheeks, and the anger in my gut twists into nervousness. You shake your head. "No, probably not."

_Are you saying no because you think that's what I want you to say, or because you don't want to go?_

"Aww, come on. It'll be fun." He's almost, like, crooning at you.

And the anger's back—I'm giving myself fucking whiplash.

You shake your head, still not meeting his eyes. "I don't think so."

He shrugs. "Whatever."

Your face still pink, you watch him walk away, then look up at me. Your voice is soft. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

I mean to tell you yes, but for some reason I say, "Do you wanna come?" And then, even though I didn't mean to ask you, I'm really hoping you'll say yes.

You frown. "To ballet?"

"Yeah." I scratch my top lip. "And, uh, to dinner, too."

You tip your head, and your hair slides out of its knot. You're gathering it back up, not looking at me. "Are you sure – I mean, is your mom gonna be okay with that?"

I laugh, because my mom is going to be over the damn moon. "Yeah, she'll be cool with it." I hope. She might scare you away with her enthusiasm. I'm going to have to call her, tell her to keep a lid on it. "You better check with your dad, though."

* * *

Ballet's a whole lot more interesting when you're sitting next to me, your thigh pressed against mine, our fingers twisted together.

We talk shit for a while. You're giving me hell for admitting I enjoyed watching _Phantom of the Opera_, and I'm giving it back because I know you loved _Stand By Me _but you won't admit it.

"Are little kids normally that coordinated?"

Your question seems to come out of nowhere. "Huh?"

"Your sister. She's really graceful. Is that normal?" I realize you're watching Rosie at the barre, doing some leg-bendy, arm-wavy thing.

I run a hand through my hair. "I think she's pretty unusual. They wanted her to take more classes but Mom said two a week was more than enough for her. She's not even six yet."

You nod. "I'm kinda jealous."

"You _are_ pretty uncoordinated." I smile, and you swat at me like you would a mosquito.

"No." You shake your head, giggling a little, but then your smile becomes suddenly sad. "Well, the coordination, too. But I meant of the little sister. I always wanted one." You chew your lip for a minute. "I feel bad for that, though. Wanting a sibling, I mean. My mom couldn't have any more kids after me. They tried. But after three miscarriages, she said she couldn't bear to keep trying and failing."

I'm not really sure what to say, so I wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull you close. I like the way the stiffness goes out of you. "You know, babe," I swallow and clear my throat, "I'm sure you parents don't feel deprived. Not when they have you."

You pull back a little, and I can't read your expression as you look up at me.

You lean towards me and kiss under my jaw. "Thank you."

I kiss your temple, and we sit in easy silence, watching Rosie's class.

When they're finishing up, I remember something. "Why, um – how come you didn't want to go to Jasper's party?"

You shrug. "Why would I want to?"

I don't really know what to say to that.

You sigh, pulling my other hand into your lap. "It wouldn't be much fun without you there, you know? It'll just be a bunch of people getting drunk or high or both; girls throwing themselves at the football team; and Alice and Jasper either hooking up or having a full-on screaming match, and I have no interest in watching that."

_Because you're still jealous or because they annoy the shit out of you, too?_

Rosie comes bouncing out of class, still dancing around on her tiptoes, and demanding your attention before I can answer you.

* * *

As I suspected, my mom's absolutely crazy about you.

You help her with dinner, and I smile as I lean against the kitchen counter, watching you chop vegetables and answer the dozens of questions my mom just can't help but ask you. I don't think you notice, but my mom shoots these pointed nods and winks my way while you're occupied with slicing an onion or peeling a carrot.

My dad's working late tonight, so it's just the four of us at the dinner table. Rosie and my mom ask you so many questions—everything from your plans for college, to your favorite _Yo Gabba Gabba_ character—that eventually I have to point out that your dinner's going to be cold before you get to take a bite.

"It's okay." You smile at me, and then I feel your hand on my knee. You squeeze it softly and give me a nod, before picking up your fork and turning your attention back to your plate.

When you offer to wash up after dessert, Mom shoos us out of the kitchen. She gives me a look, and I think she's going to tell me to leave my bedroom door open, but instead she just smiles and mouths "Be careful." My face hot, I roll my eyes at her at her—_she seriously thinks I'd have sex with you while she's downstairs?—_and follow you up the stairs to my bedroom.

* * *

Come Saturday, though, my mom's taken Rosie into town for the day, and my dad's at work.

We're on my bed, and I'm between your legs, my lips hard against yours. My chest is bare, and my hands are under your shirt, my fingers on your nipples, and I'm trying to coax that sound from you again. I use a little more pressure, pinch harder, and you're arching and there it is, slipping from your lips, that gaspy little noise that makes me even harder, knowing I'm making you feel good.

I grind down against you, and I can feel the pressure building, can feel myself getting close, overwhelmed by the feel of your skin under my fingertips, your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth.

I break the kiss, pull back to look at you. Your eyes are closed, your chest rising and falling, your hips rocking as much as they can when they're pinned under mine.

My stomach twists a little with familiar worry. When your eyes are closed like that, I still sometimes worry that you're thinking about Jasper. That you're imagining him above you, that you're imagining that it's him that makes you feel like this.

I stop moving against you, and your eyes open. There's this softness I don't understand in them. I think it's the same thing that's there in the way the corners of your lips turn up, and the way your hand rests against my cheek, and I hope like hell it means what I want it to.

"You okay?" You're a little out of breath still.

Your eyes narrow when I don't answer straight away. I mean to, but I'm watching at the way the afternoon light slides into the room and bounces copper and red sparks off your hair, the way your eyes seem to glow almost golden.

"Your eyes look gold," I say. I realize how stupid I sound as soon as the words are hanging over us, but your smile grows.

"Why did you stop?" You rock your pelvis.

I look away from you, to the floor, where my shirt is puddled with your hoodie. "I, uh …" I shake my head. My arms shake a little as I continue to hold myself over you. I decide it's just easier to go with the truth. Hoping you don't get mad at me, I say, "When your eyes are closed, are you thinking about me?"

Your smile falls off your face, and creases line your forehead. You push my arm and my elbow buckles. "Off."

My lungs feel like they're lined with lead as I roll off you, onto my side. But you turn to face me, instead of climbing off the bed like I expect. And that's a good thing, I think.

You give me a small smile, and your fingers comb through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. I copy you, tucking the hair that's fallen over your face behind your ear.

"Edward?" You ask, "Am I really not being obvious enough?"

I smile, remembering the last time you used that line on me.

I know you a lot better now. I know how smart you are, how hard you work in school because you want to go to UW on a full scholarship so you won't be a burden on your folks. I know you're sarcastic but sweet, and that you can somehow be confident and shy in the same breath. I know all your favorite books, movies and bands, and even though we don't have identical tastes, we can talk and argue about them for hours. I know exactly how to avoid your sharp tongue when it's that time of the month—first rule, never ever ask if it's that time of the month—and I know that it will take very little effort to convince you to cut class on a Tuesday afternoon because you really hate gym.

You know a lot more about me, too. You know there's no point talking to me before eight o'clock in the morning, so you always have a cup of coffee waiting for me when I pick you up. And you know that I _like_ driving you to and from school, so you don't even fight me on that anymore.

"Oh." I say it out loud and you laugh at me, the lines on your forehead smoothing away and gathering instead at the corners of your eyes.

"Do you think you could be a little more obvious? Just so I don't misunderstand?"

You roll your eyes, but you're still smiling. "Obviously … I love you."

My heart thinks it's at a rave, dancing and pounding in my chest. "I love you, too."

Your eyes are all sparkly. "Obviously."

My hand on your cheek, I kiss you, and then it's like we can't get close enough fast enough, and then your shirt is gone and I'm fumbling with your bra. You giggle and reach around to undo it, and my mouth goes really dry because I'm looking at your breasts and I can't decide if I want to touch them or kiss them. I end up doing both, and I think I probably thank you a few too many times, because you're laughing and that makes your boobs shake which only turns me on even more and if you keep moving your hips against mine like that I'm going to end up coming in my jeans.

I have to lift off you, and you make this little whiny sound, which makes me smile. I undo the button on your jeans, and you let me pull them down, even though I can see the tension that's creeping over you. You lie still as I pull them over your hips, your lip between your teeth.

The birthmark on your thigh is dark red, like someone spilled red wine on your lap or something. I trace my fingers over it, smiling at you, wanting you to know that you are not your perceived imperfections. I think about kissing it, but then I think maybe it's better if I don't make a big deal out of it, so instead, I walk my fingers up to your hips, then slide one under the elastic of your panties.

I raise an eyebrow and you nod, and the tightness in your eyes eases as my hand slides into your underwear. I'm not exactly sure what I'm doing, but you bring your hand to cover mine over the top of your panties and you show me where to touch and how hard and how fast and I'm feeling pretty fucking fantastic when your back arches and it's my name you're gasping as you come.

When you catch your breath, I slip my hand out of your panties and kiss you, slow and gentle, until I feel your hands working the buttons of my jeans.

You hand slides into my boxers, closing around me, tugging gently at first, then harder, faster, and – "_Fuck_ … Bella."

With my hands on your breasts, your mouth on my neck, and your hand in my pants, I don't last long. It feels so good, too good, like I'm drowning in naked skin and hot kisses.

Breathing heavy, it's an effort to open my eyes. It's worth it though, to see you smiling at me. Wiping your hands on a tissue, you press a kiss to my nose, then to my lips.

"Edward?"

My smile is lazy, post-orgasm endorphins or whatever they are making me dopey. "Mmm."

"I love you."

"Obviously."

* * *

**A/N: Hi! My thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write a second chapter to this. I hope you enjoyed it!**

**And thanks, as ever to my Tam, who pushed me to make this better, and is just the loveliest friend ever.**

**She also has a brand new story with an Edward I just adore, called "Two Weeks." It's in my favourites - Go read it!**

**Shell x**


	3. Chapter 3

_**You and Me, once again.**_

* * *

**Bella.**

* * *

"You know, it kind of looks like the ocean is swallowing the sun."

I look over my shoulder and smile at you. "That's very poetic." I'm teasing, but the truth is, I like this side of you. Most people don't get to see it.

You shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe it's not that it's swallowing it, maybe the sun is being dissolved into the sea."

Sitting on First Beach in the summertime is not a new thing. Days as clear and bright as this might be rare, but I've spent countless hours on this stretch of sand over the years. Sitting between your knees, though, your lips on my neck, your fingers tangled with mine—I haven't spent a summer like this before.

"No, seriously," you say. "Look. I mean with the reflection and stuff, and then all the sparks of light kind of dancing off the waves. It's like the sun isn't going behind the horizon, but _into_ the sea. Like one of those dissolvable aspirin or something."

The awe I'm feeling at seeing things through your eyes is overtaken by amusement at your analogy and I giggle. You make this strange, playful _grrr_ noise, and the next thing I know, I'm on my back with sand in my hair and you looking down at me, backlit by the setting sun—or aspirin. Your smile is as wide as mine.

You speak first. "I love you, Bella."

I scrunch my nose. "Obviously."

Your mouth is on mine then, but we're smiling and laughing too much to really get lost in the kiss.

Still chuckling, you pull back. I touch my finger to your nose. "I love you, too."

* * *

My hand's in yours as we step through the front door and into the house.

It's so loud in here it's like we're stepping into the bass-beat, like the heavy throb becomes our pulse as it pounds through us. My fingers tighten around yours, and you glance at me, dark eyes reflecting the twinkle lights Jessica has strung up in the living room.

I haven't been in here since that night, so many months ago. I thought it would feel weird, but with your hand in mine, guiding me through the crowds clustered in the hall to the packed living room, it just feels like any other Friday night.

Your lips at my ear, you have to shout to be heard. Even then, I feel your words more than hear them—hot, damp breath bursting against my cheek, "You okay?"

I don't bother trying to compete with the music and the shouted conversations that fill the room, making it feel like there isn't enough air in here. I nod, and stand on my tiptoes to kiss beneath your jaw. You kiss my forehead, and I can smell peppermint, beer and the cigarettes we smoked outside.

You pull me against you, then, your arm sliding around my waist, my back pressed against your front. Your chin drops to my shoulder and you turn your head, kissing me again. When your lips are near my skin, it's like you just can't help yourself. I'm not complaining, though—it makes my heart feel too big inside my ribs, the way your lips seem to have their own agenda, the way they seek my skin out like magnets drawn to iron.

And then that voice, the one I really didn't want to hear tonight cuts across the dirty bass beat. "Isabella. You came!"

I used to know that voice better than I knew my own. For twelve years that voice was on the soundtrack to every memory I have. Murmured secrets spilled underneath a comforter in the middle of the night, whispered giggles in the back of an English classroom, squeals of laughter bouncing down the corridors, solemn promises of a forever-friendship.

Now, though, malice laces every word, and it changes her voice, as if she's speaking a new language I don't know. "I'm so surprised to see you two here," she says.

Even in the almost-dark, I can feel her gaze, crawling across us, taking in the way our fingers are tangled together, our arms wrapped together around my waist. I wonder why she's picked tonight to address me after months of our only communication being her dark looks and scowls and my rolling eyes.

I can feel your laughter, rumbling through your chest and into mine. "So am I," you say. You're speaking to me, not Alice. But then you raise your voice, pushing the words out over the cacophony. "Jess invited us."

Her lips purse; yours return to my neck. I can feel them stretch into a smile there.

"So, I bet you're worried about this year, Isabella. All those college girls chasing your man." Her voice is like saccharine—artificially sweet with a bitterness that can't quite be masked. "When do you leave, Edward?"

You laugh against my neck and it makes me squirm. You look up and I can't see your smile but I can hear it. "July."

She looks confused. I can almost hear her thinking, _but it's August!_ I see when she makes the connection. She changes tack. "Aww, you guys are moving away together. That's sweet. I wonder how many high school relationships survive the first year in the real world?"

I feel your shrug.

"Oh, wait." There's triumph in her eyes. "Isabella, I totally forgot. Your parents were like, high school sweethearts. Weren't they?" She smirks.

I flinch—I can't help it. She knows all my secrets; she knows just where to drive her cruel arrows to pierce me where I'm softest.

You squeeze me tight, but direct your words to her. "So were mine."

Her smirk falters and falls. Everyone in this town knows how in love your parents are—still. Everyone has seen them walking through the grocery store hand-in-hand, or swinging Rosie between them as they walk home from the park. Everyone has envied the conversations they have without words, or the secret smiles they share when they think no one is looking.

Alice watches us for a few more moments, blinking slowly. Momentarily defeated, she's looking for another angle, readying herself for another skirmish. But then her eyes go wide and her bottom lip disappears into her mouth.

Jasper saunters into the room, arm around the waist of a blonde who's at least four inches taller than he is—and she's not wearing heels. "Allie." He smiles at her, like they're old friends, like every step he takes with his arms around this girl isn't one more stomp on her pride.

He follows her gaze. "Edward. Izzy." His voice is loud, his smile loose. He clutches a bottle of vodka in the hand not attached to Blondie's hip.

"This is Chelsea," he shouts.

She smiles—the open, honest smile of an outsider who can't know the tension their presence is creating. "Nice to meet you." She means it, too. She grins, leaning around Jasper to shake Alice's hand. She holds her hand out toward you and me, giggling when you keep my hand in yours and we both shake hers.

"Aww. You guys are so cute!"

I lean back into you, and I return her smile—I'm not doing it to be a bitch to Alice, I just can't help it. This girl is like a breath of the crispest, freshest air in this stiflingly hot room.

Jasper jerks his head toward the kitchen, miming taking a drink. Chelsea nods, then points at you and me and Alice. She holds up four fingers. Jasper nods and disappears into the mass of writhing bodies.

Chelsea turns to Alice. "This is your party, right? Jay said it's your birthday or something."

Alice swallows hard and nods. "Joint-party. It's Jessica's birthday the day after mine."

"Wicked." Chelsea looks around. "It's rockin'." She grins then. "So … _joint_ party, hey?" Her eyebrows lift.

You chuckle. "You came with Jazz and you're trying to bum off us?"

She tips her head, puzzled. It makes me giggle.

I explain. "Jasper's the most likely to be carrying."

Alice's lips press in a tight line and Chelsea nods, her smile megawatt bright once more.

Jasper comes back then, juggling three red cups and doing that exaggerated I-don't-want-to-wear-this walk. Mike is with him, carrying three more cups—and he almost does wear it as he stops suddenly, staring open-mouthed at Chelsea. She seems oblivious as she takes the cup Jasper offers her with a smile. Alice isn't.

Mike passes you and me our drinks, and we stand around making shouty small talk for a while. Chelsea's the same age as Alice and me. She's from Seattle but is spending the summer visiting her cousins or something in Port Angeles and she and Jasper got chatting in the café he's been working in two days a week. I listen at first, I swear I do, but I gradually get distracted as I become more aware of the heat of your body behind me.

I lean back against you, swaying a little. The vodka and orange Mike handed me definitely has more vodka than orange in it. I'm buzzing, and I slow my sips, giggling at the feel of your breath against my ear. You smell like oranges now. "I can't drink all this," I tell you.

"I'm driving," you remind me. I peer into your cup and it's mostly full still.

"Okay." I'm still not going to finish my drink. I know you too well, and I know that for me to get my way tonight I need to be sober. When I'm drunk, you won't do much more than kiss me, and you definitely won't let me take my clothes off. It annoys me at the time—when I'm drunk and needy—but when my mind clears, it makes me love you more.

Tonight though, I want to take my clothes off, and I want to take yours off, and I want to have sex with you. I'm beyond ready.

I spin inside the circle of your arms, wrapping my free arm around your neck.

You look at me that way you do, like you can't quite believe that I'm standing here, as we kind of sway with the music. I slide my fingers into your hair, twisting and pulling. You get the hint and drop your mouth to mine.

You taste like my drink, only better. I think I could get drunker from kissing you than from the six or so shots of Absolut in my cup. I can kind of hear someone screeching over the music but I can't be bothered trying to decipher who it is or what they're saying.

You pull back, and you lick your lips and it's so sexy that I have to kiss you again. I push my chest against yours, kissing you until I'm breathless. There's blood pounding in my head and between my legs, and standing like this, there's no relief. I think about trying to convince you to take me to Jess' sister's room, but I know you won't go for it.

You pull away, breathing hard. I swallow the rest of my drink and you take the empty cup from me because you're sweet like that. "You wanna dance?"

I agree and you set your still nearly-full cup on the sideboard. Linking your fingers through mine, you pull me through the crowd of bodies packed into in Jessica's living room and down into the basement.

It's darker and louder down here, and I have no idea where all these people have come from. I don't really like crowds, but with your hand in mine, I don't mind so much. You pull me between knots of people—couples kissing and grinding, groups of girls dancing with their hands in the air, guys standing still as they watch. You find us a bit of space and pull me against you, back to front again.

I tip my head back, looking up at you. You're upside down. Or I am. "You like my ass against you there, don't you?" I have to shout and even then I'm not sure you hear me. You grin and lift your eyebrows and I'm thinking Jessica's sister's room is looking even more appealing.

You kiss my neck, which feels really good, but being upside down is starting to hurt so I look forward again. I lift my arms and link them behind your neck. It makes me feel sexy, with the alcohol warming me, and my back arched and my boobs pushed out like this.

You grip my hips, and pull me hard against you. I was right—you do like my ass against you there. I can feel you through your jeans and my skirt and _I_ like that.

We're so tightly fitted together that when you move your hips, mine move, too. The bodies pressed around us pulse and surge, the scents of booze and sweat hanging like a heavy cloud over the room.

I'm sweaty and the buzz is starting to drain away when you spin me around and kiss me again. I gasp into your mouth at the urgency I feel behind your kiss. Your lips are hard against mine, our little grunts and groans muffled as we kiss and kiss and kiss.

"You wanna get out of here?" You point to the ceiling.

I nod. I want nothing more than I want that.

We have to shove our way out of the crowd. It's disorienting, the mass of people around us. Somehow I'd forgotten they were there. Our fingers are linked tight as you pull me back up the stairs and head toward the front door.

It's only marginally quieter outside. From out here, the music makes the house seem alive—like it has a heartbeat. "There's no way your Dad isn't going to hear about this." You shake your head. "I dunno where everyone came from."

I laugh. "We should definitely leave before he turns up then."

You sling an arm around my shoulder as we walk down the sloping driveway. We've only taken a few steps when you pause, cocking your head like you're listening hard. I frown. I hear it, too.

Someone speaking … and crying. They're trying to keep quiet but make themselves heard over the echoing noise coming from the house.

"No, no. Please–"

Adrenaline spikes in me, and I can feel it surge in you. Your muscles tight, you look around, trying to figure out where the soft cries are coming from.

And then I see her. I squeeze your hand and tip my head to the left.

Alice is sitting on the grassy slope, half-hidden by the sandstone letterbox she's leaning against.

"No, Mom. I–I …"

My heart squeezes. A habit I haven't unlearned.

"Mom … please list– … No … Mom." Another sob.

"Mom. Mo–"

I rub my chest as you pull me close, asking softly if I'm okay. I shake my head. So many times in the last few months, I've told myself that she and I are done—that she burnt that bridge and nothing would ever compel me to cross over it once more.

Apparently I was wrong. No matter how much she's hurt me, I can't ignore her now.

I duck out from under your arm. "Babe, I'm just going to–" I wave a hand in her direction.

Lines cut across your forehead. "Are you sure? I mean–" You shrug and run a hand through your hair, making it stand on end.

I smile because I know what you aren't saying. "I'll be okay," I promise. I kiss your cheek, then your lips because they're there and I can't help it. "I won't be long. Don't like, disappear on me, all right?"

You shake your head, one corner of your mouth lifting. "Where would I go?"

* * *

I watch you walk down the drive toward your car, breathing deep. I'm nervous.

_Just go_, I tell myself. _See if she's okay. If she tells you to fuck off, you can just catch up with Edward and leave._

I twist my fingers together as I walk toward her. I call her name softly. I don't want to sneak up on her.

And then I'm standing in front of her and she's looking up at me and the streetlight shines on her face, glinting on her cheeks.

I squat down, the grass tickling my knees. "Are you okay?"

She folds her arms across her chest. "Why do you care?"

There's a part of me that wants to tell her I don't. That part that's stored up every little insult and slight wants me to get up and walk away and never look back. I ignore it. For now.

So I don't answer her question because I'm not sure I can. I ask a different one instead. "I heard you, um – is it stuff at home?"

She looks away and shrugs her shoulders.

That's twice. I tell myself that if she ignores me a third time, I'll give her what she seems to want and walk away.

I sit down awkwardly, trying not to flash her my panties. The grass is cool but not too damp after a day of bright sunshine. I tear a few blades from their stalks, rubbing then between my fingers before I toss them over my shoulder.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Alice sniffling occasionally.

When she clears her throat I hold my breath. She'll either tell me to take a hike or toss her heart into my lap.

Her voice is low and tight, and she speaks quickly, pushing the words out with one breath so they seem to slam into each other. "It's just stuff with my mom."

I almost say "duh," but I press my lips together as I'm flooded with twelve years worth of memories—snatches of conversation, images and impressions. I look up, squinting at her in the darkness.

Alice and her mom have never had a particularly great relationship. Not having my own mother around, I remember being kind of upset by it early on in our friendship. I had harbored a little dream that Alice and her mom would fill, in just a small way, the huge gap my mom had left in my life when she walked out on Dad and me.

I didn't want, or need, her to mother me; all I wanted was to warm my hands on the fires of mother-daughter affection. But the thing was, Mrs. Brandon wasn't so much interested in mothering Alice, as she was in _managing_ her. Her daughter was just another box to check off in her busy life of lists and chores. Mrs. Brandon was always polite to me, and she was happy to have me sleep over on the nights Dad had to pull a double shift. But there was always something a little cold about her—and Cynthia Brandon was no warmer toward her own daughter than she was toward me, or the girl behind the cash register in the grocery store.

"Things are worse?"

Alice's head jerks, like her body wants to nod but her brain tells it to stop. "She's …" She sighs, looking up at me, meeting my eyes. For the first time in months there's no flash of anger or contempt. She looks tired. "It just sucks."

"I'm sorr–"

Alice groans as her phone starts to shrill. She doesn't answer it. "I need to get home," she mutters. "Or she'll probably come looking for me."

"Did you drive?"

She shakes her head. "No, Lauren picked me up after work." She runs a hand through her hair. Her pinky finger sticks up as the rest of her fingers slide through the short, dark strands. "I told her like, two weeks ago that I was staying at Jess's tonight, and she said that was fine. But now she's insisting I come home."

I don't bother pointing out that we're on vacation, or that Alice is eighteen. Instead, I take a deep breath, and I shove aside several months of bitterness, packing it down into a corner of my mind to deal with later. "Edward and I were just leaving. Do you want a lift?" I doubt you'll mind—her place is on the way to mine from here.

Alice hesitates. "I don't – I mean, I can call a cab or something."

I smile sadly. "It's fine. Come on."

I get to my feet and offer her my hand, and she looks at it for a few seconds before she takes it, wrapping her cool, damp fingers around mine and squeezing a little as I pull her to her feet.

She follows me down the hill to the car. When I open the back door for her, I hear your mumbled greeting, and it makes me smile. You don't question her presence, and I know that's for my sake, not hers.

We drive in a silence that's broken by Alice's phone vibrating on the seat beside her until you can't take it anymore. You flick the radio on, humming quietly to whatever song comes on. I barely hear it. My eyes are on your right hand, fingers curled around the gear stick, thinking of the way they feel on my skin, tangled in my hair, slipping inside my panties.

It's selfish and I feel bad for it, but my mind is at your place, in your bed, hoping that this detour won't mean all my plans for this evening will have to be shelved. Guilt and arousal compete for space in my stomach, pushing against each other—both feeling certain that the other doesn't belong inside me right now.

At Alice's place, I squeeze your hand. "I won't be long, okay?"

You smile, and there's something wicked twinkling in your eyes. "You better not be." My stomach twists in anticipation. Perhaps I won't have to work too hard later tonight after all.

You lean over and kiss my cheek and the feel of your lips on my skin makes it hard for me to undo the buckle. I want to tell you to drive me home and get me naked immediately.

Alice's voice is quiet, but genuine. "Thanks for the ride, Edward."

You nod. "No problem."

I open my door, and climb out. Alice frowns at me before she squints at her shoes. "You don't have to come in."

I know I don't, but her phone has gone off at least four times in the last fifteen minutes, and I feel almost obligated to demonstrate to Mrs. Brandon that Alice came straight home when she was summoned. I shrug. "It's okay. I'll just say hi quickly." I smile small. "I haven't seen your Dad for ages anyway."

"Okay." Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, she nods. "And thanks."

Walking up the Brandon's driveway feels familiar and strange all at once. I've made this trek thousands of times, but this is the first time in years I've walked it with my arms swinging and not linked in Alice's. It makes me feel funny, like my arms are too long or something. I'm sure they look stupid, flapping around at my sides, and I wish I had worn jeans, or a coat—anything with pockets.

Alice rings the doorbell. She shrugs when I look at her, confused. "She took away my key, like a month ago, I think. This way I have to get home while she's awake." She lowers her voice. "Or text Dad. He's gotten me out of trouble a few times over the break."

I'm almost glad when the door swings open, because I don't know what to say to that.

"Izzy's here." Alice speaks before the door is fully open, throwing my name in front of her mom like a shield.

"Oh, Isabella. How are you, darling? It's been so long." Mrs. Brandon's smile is friendly but, as usual, there's no warmth there. "Come on in, dear."

I dutifully follow her through their foyer and into the kitchen.

"How have you been?" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "You look so lovely." She sighs, reach for a lock of my hair. "Such a shame Alice cut all her hair off. She looks like a little boy, now."

She looks over at her daughter. "Doesn't Izzy's hair look lovely? See how feminine it is?"

Alice agrees, her eyes on her hands as she twists her fingers together.

"Isabella, dear. Would you like a drink?" She opens the refrigerator before I can decline. "Coke? Apple juice? Or water?"

I tell her I'll have a coke, but just a half-glass because I can't stay long. She bustles around the kitchen, adding ice to the glass.

"Can I have one too, Mom?"

Mrs. Brandon nods, not looking at Alice. "Of course, dear."

"You haven't been around for such a long time, Isabella." She gives me a conspiratorial smile. "Can't say I blame you. Dr. Cullen's son's probably much more interesting than this one." She jerks her head Alice, who is leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Oh – uh."

She waves a hand. "Don't feel bad, darling. Alice understands. Don't you, dear?" She sighs theatrically. "I don't know why Alice isn't interested in boys."

"Mom–"

"You know," Mrs. Brandon leans close, and I have to fight the urge to pull back. "I thought Alice might be … well, otherwise inclined, if you know what I mean."

She takes my carefully blank expression as confusion. "I thought she might be more interested in sleeping with you than Edward, for example." She punctuates her words with an eyebrow raise, and I hate myself for the way my cheeks burn.

My heart feels like it's beating in my throat. I swallow hard. "I think Allie's hair looks gorgeous. I wish I could pull off a cut like that." The words sound lame and forced, even though I mean them.

Mrs. Brandon smiles like she feels sorry for me. "That–"

"That you, Allie?" Mr. Brandon's voice precedes him down the stairs.

Alice smiles—it almost looks like relief. "Yeah, Dad."

Mrs. Brandon purses her lips and turns her back on the room, rifling around in the pantry.

"Hey, girlie. You have a good night? I wasn't expecting you home so early."

Alice shrugs. Her gaze slides over her mother's back. "Yeah, well."

Mr. Brandon sighs. He kisses the top of Alice's head and then spots me, perched at the kitchen counter. "Hey, Izzy! How are you, honey? It's been ages since we've seen you around these parts."

Alice and I exchange a look, and I see written on her face the same guilt and regret I'm feeling.

"I'm well, thanks, Mr. Brandon."

"Iz-_zy_."

My giggle is more nerves than amusement. "Sorry, Dave. I'm really good."

He nods, scratching his unshaven chin. "You're looking well. It's been too long."

I look at Alice as I answer. "It really has. I'm sorry." She gives me a small smile.

"Isabella—would you like something to eat? I made some white chocolate and raspberry muffins this morning. I know they're your favorite."

They're not my favorite. They're Alice's favorite. "Oh, I shouldn't. I need to go soon."

Mrs. Brandon clucks her tongue. "Big plans tonight?"

My face burns as I contemplate the plans I've nervously sketched out in my mind. "No, not really. I just need to get home before my curfew."

"Oh, I'm sure your Dad would be okay with you staying here. I can call him if you'd like."

"Uh–" I fumble around for an excuse; a reason to decline the offer that's not – _But I really want to give my boyfriend my virginity tonight._

Salvation comes from the last place I expect. "Maybe next weekend, Izzy?"

I shoot Alice a grateful smile. "If that's okay—I'd love to."

She nods, but looks at her Dad.

He chuckles. "Fine by m–"

"Yes, that's perfectly all right, dear." Mrs. Brandon speaks over the top of her husband, as if she needs to remind us all that she's here. "Goodness knows Alice could use your influence."

Silence greets her pronouncement. Alice, her dad and I all avoid looking at each other, until Alice saves me again. "Edward's probably wondering where you are," she murmurs. She jerks her head toward the front door. "I'll walk you out."

It's a relief to say my goodbyes. I promise not to be a stranger at her parents' insistence, and then follow Alice back through the house to the front door.

We look at each other, wearing matching half-smiles. A soft "Thank you," spills from both of us at the same time.

Alice makes the first move. Her hand on my arm, she squeezes gently. "I'm sorry."

I nod. "Me, too."

She shakes her head. "Don't – you don't need to–"

I do, but I let it go. For now. "I'll see you next Friday, then?"

Her grey-green eyes widen. "I didn't – I mean … if you want to …"

"I want to."

Wordless understanding passes between us. We're not okay, but we're one step closer to being there.

"Alice!"

She grimaces. "I've gotta …" She waves a hand over her shoulder.

"Yeah. I, uh, I'll see you soon."

She nods. "I hope so."

* * *

I pull open the passenger side door and flop onto the seat. I was only inside for fifteen minutes, but somehow, it feels like fifteen hours, fifteen days have passed.

Your hand finds mine, tying our fingers in knots. "Everything okay?"

"I think so." I'm still a little shell-shocked, to be honest. "It was … I don't know. I'm sleeping over next Friday."

"Wow."

"Yeah. I know."

You fire the ignition and pull out onto the road. "So … you wanna explain that? I mean – you don't have to, if you don't want. It's just weird. Like, an hour ago, you two hated each other."

I blow out a big breath of air, making a raspberry noise. It makes you smile. "I mean, there's no excuse, you know?"

You glance in the rearview mirror, but you're nodding.

"But I guess, I understand–" I pull my fingers through my hair, untangling a knot in the ends "–a little bit more now."

We pause at a t-intersection, and I catch your frown before you turn your head to check no traffic is coming.

"Her mom is a total bitch." I surprise myself with the words, with the harsh sounds they make as they spill from my tongue.

You squint, and I think you're trying to understand what I'm not saying. "So you mean, it's learned behavior?"

I rest my head back against the cushioned headrest, tipping it to face you. I like watching you drive. "No. Well, maybe. But I mean, her mom is like, really awful to her. She kept … I don't know." I think about telling you all the things her mother said about her, the attacks she made on her sexuality and her femininity, but it feels like a betrayal to say them out loud. Like repeating them would give them a kind of credibility they don't deserve.

I sigh. "I don't know. Maybe … I mean, the way her mom makes her feel, maybe that's why, you know?"

You glance at me for a moment before you look back at the road. Slowing the car, you pull up to the curb around the block from my place. Dad might not be home tonight, but leaving your car in our driveway overnight is asking for trouble. You don't get out right away. "I don't know if I'll ever really understand girls. But if you're okay, then that's all that really matters to me."

That makes me smile. "Thanks."

"Do you, uh, still want me to come–"

"Yes." And yes.

I think you catch the innuendo because your smile becomes a smirk, and you trace your finger up the inside of my wrist. Your voice is low, and you lean toward me as you speak. "So, why are you still wearing your seatbelt?"

"Umm." I blink, I can't focus when your lips are so close I can feel your breath on my own.

The buckle uncatching startles me, and I look down as you push the belt away, releasing me from its hold. "Shall we?"

"Oh. Right."

You chuckle and kiss me—too briefly—before opening your door and climbing out of the car.

Backpack over your shoulder, your hand in mine, we head toward my house. Silence settles over us, heavy and expectant. We don't speak as I unlock the front door, or as we climb the stairs to my room.

You dump your bag on the floor, just inside the door, then sit on my bed, leaning forward, elbows on your knees. You look up at me, your teeth digging into your lip, and I guess you know what I want, because I've never seen you look so nervous.

I step between your knees, and you lift your hands, gripping my waist. I lean over and kiss you softly.

You pull down me into your lap, breaking the kiss. "Bella–"

"Don't." I push my fingers against you lips. "Don't question me. Don't try to talk me out of this. I want this. I want _you_."

I feel your lips stretch into a smile beneath my fingertips. "Mmmhha."

I pull my hand away. "What?"

Your fingers toy with the edge of my shirt. "Like I'm going to try and talk you out of it." Your lips find my neck, kissing, licking, sucking. "Like I could ever say no to you."

"You have plenty of times."

You chuckle. The burst of hot air against my skin raises goose bumps. "Only when you're drunk, silly. I want this, bad. It just – it wouldn't be right to do this when you weren't completely sober."

"I'm sober. And I want this."

"Me, too."

I lean forward to kiss you, but your "wait," makes me pause.

You lick your lips, tightening your grip on my hips. "It's all I can do to not completely lose my head, babe, but we've gotta talk about this, okay?"

I inhale hard through my nose. "Okay. Okay."

"I haven't … before."

I have to smile at that. "I know. And you know I haven't either."

You nod. "Are you on the pill?"

"Yeah. For a while now." You don't ask for an explanation, but I give you one anyway. "It helps with my skin and cramps and stuff."

You smile and kiss my cheek. "'Kay. I, uh, I have – I bought condoms."

I giggle. "Me, too." I lean over and pull a strip of them from the drawer by my bed.

You lift one hand from my waist, pulling it through your hair. You look at the floor as you speak. "It's going to hurt … for you."

I touch your cheek and you meet my eyes. "I know. It's okay."

"Doesn't seem fair though, does it? That it's going to be, well, fucking amazing for me, and like, excruciating for you?"

I wrinkle my nose. "I think excruciating might be overstating things a little. But, uh, if it makes you feel better, I'd rather be hurt by you than by anyone else."

The way your jaw flexes and your hands leave my body tell me that probably wasn't the smartest thing to say. Your curse is soft but overlaid with tension. "Fuck."

I sigh, pressing my lips to your jaw. "I'm sorry, babe. But I want this, okay? I want it to be you. And I want it to be now."

You close your eyes as I trail kisses across your face, and I can feel the tension seeping out of your body. You wrap your arms around me, drawing me close. "You're sure?"

"One hundred percent." I kiss your mouth. "Please, don't ask me again."

You don't. Instead, you kiss me hard, and it feels like letting go and giving in to what you really want. Your tongue slides into my mouth and your hands are under my shirt, cupping my breasts, thumbing my nipples through my bra. I make this moaning noise, and it's a little embarrassing, but you don't seem to care, groaning into my mouth.

It's hard to manoeuvre around you, when you won't remove your hands from my beneath my top, but somehow we find our way, and I'm on my back and you're between my legs, grinding your hips against me.

My hips lift to meet yours, looking for pressure and friction in the right place and each time you rub against me, something inside me ratchets tight. I scrabble at your back, grabbing at your shirt. "Edward. Off. Off."

You pull back, concern lining your forehead.

I shake my head before you can speak. "No, your shirt. Off."

You pull away, sitting up on your knees and pulling your shirt off in that way guys do in the movies, reaching behind your shoulders. You start to undo your jeans, and my mouth goes dry watching your long fingers push the buttons through their holes. One. Two. Three.

You get up off the bed to drop them to the floor, taking your boxers with them.

And then you're naked, and while I've put my hands, and my mouth all over you, and I've seen you without clothes before, knowing this is happening, that we're doing this, now—it feels like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs.

You smile, kind of shy, leaning over me, tucking your fingers under the hem of my shirt. I sit up and let you pull it over my head. I go to unclasp my bra, but I change my mind. I want you to do that.

You do, fumbling and swearing a little. You pull it off me, the lace and satin whispering against my skin as you pull it down my arms. It joins the puddle of fabric beside my bed. I collapse back against the pillows and you kiss each nipple and it makes me gasp.

You kiss my tummy, then undo the button on my skirt. You wait and when I nod, you pull it and my panties down my legs. It's my turn to smile shyly.

I reach for you, but you lie down beside me, your fingers moving between my legs.

"I want–"

You shake your head, kissing me softly. "Let me, 'kay? It's not … let me."

I don't argue because your fingers are sliding against my damp skin and it feels so good and I've forgotten what I was saying anyway. I grab your wrist and slow your movements, drawing out the feeling. Your hair tickles my chest as you trail kisses across my breasts, sucking my nipples, and them I'm calling your name as white stars explode in front of my eyes.

When I remember how to open my eyes, you're tearing open the little packet, and I smile as you turn the condom over a few times, trying to decide which way it goes on. My smile disappears as I watch you roll it over yourself, because seeing your fingers wrapped around your length like that is so fucking sexy that I'm tempted to beg you to get yourself off while I watch. Until your eyes find mine, and the thought fades away as quickly as it came, because all I can think about is doing this, joining your body with mine and sharing this with you, now.

You crawl over me, framing my head with your elbows as you hold yourself above me. I lift my head and kiss you, but then I pull away because I feel you there, and I want—need—to be able to see your face. My hands wrap around your biceps as you start to push in, and I think I'm digging my nails into your skin, but I can't be sure.

It hurts, it does. Pinching. Burning. Stretching.

"You're shaking," I murmur.

You nod, swallowing hard. I can see you fighting the urge to squeeze your eyes closed.

I want to tell you to hurry up, to just push, to just get it over with, but there's so much concern lining your forehead that I keep quiet. I can't stifle the little cry of pain as you thrust deeper, though, and I see the panic as you look into my eyes.

"I'm okay."

Your jaw flexes, and I imagine you'll crack your teeth if you don't relax. Your whole body is trembling. I make soft circles up your arms, across your shoulders, trying to relax you, trying to distract myself.

My eyes start to burn a little, but not because it hurts. In fact, it's hurting less already. No, I'm crying because it's you and this is happening and this is real. You're inside me. Making real with your body what's been true for months now.

"I love you."

You make this kind of grunt-moan that would be funny if I didn't feel it in my chest, if I couldn't feel your heart trying to pound through your ribcage and into mine.

"Bella." The way you say my name, like the word itself is precious makes my eyes fill with more tears. I blink them away. I won't let you see me cry because I know you'll misunderstand.

"You can move." I need you to.

"I, uh–"

"It's okay."

You move. Pulling out, groaning, pushing back in. Sweat beads on your brow. You thrust again. Pulling back, pushing back in. And then you're gasping my name, surrounding it with curses and groans as your body stiffens.

You collapse on top of me, and I smile as I curl my fingers into your hair, scratching gently across your scalp. I can't bring myself to care how brief this first time was—knowing I made you lose control like that? I like it; it makes me feel desirable and wanted.

You breathing is heavy; hot, damp air blossoming across my skin. I can feel you murmuring but can't make out the words.

"Edward?"

"Mmm-you."

"Baby?"

You lift up a little, looking at me. You're not smiling, but there's an intensity in your eyes that brightens them. "I love you."

I smile, shifting a little. There's a not-so pleasant ache between my legs. You frown, lifting your hips, sliding out of me. "Are you okay?"

I nod. "Yeah." And even though I'm in a little bit of pain, I'm more than okay. "I love you."

You roll off me and get to your feet. You look a little drunk and it makes me feel warm inside. I look at the hand you extend to me. "Come on."

Your fingers feel warm and strong as they enclose mine. You pull me into the bathroom, keeping hold of me as you turn the bath taps on with your other hand.

You hold me close as the bath fills. Your arms wrapped around me, your chin resting on the top of my head. We don't speak, but what more do we need to say? In your arms, I feel precious.

I pull away to turn the taps off.

The hot water stings, but when you climb in behind me and pull my back against your chest, I barely notice the pain. I can feel you hardening against my ass, and though I know I can't do that again tonight, I want to. I'm already craving that connection, that look of wonder in your eyes when you're inside me, that feeling of being closer to you than I've ever been to anyone.

The water's getting cold and our skin is all wrinkly when we finally get out.

Lying in bed, clothed now, we lie nose to nose, your arm slung across my waist, our ankles tangled.

You kiss my forehead, my nose, my lips. "I love you."

The word's on the tip of my tongue, but I'm too full of emotion, like it barely fits inside me, to make our usual joke. I nod, my throat closing over. A few tears escape. You wipe them from my cheeks.

I choke on what might be a laugh, or might be a sob, swallowing it down. "I love you, too."

* * *

**A/N: One more chapter to go. I'm not sure when it'll be up. After **_**Terroir**_** is complete, I'd imagine.**

**My sincerest apologies for my slackness re: review replies for this story. Please know I cherish every single one of them.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Thanks, also, to lovely BelieveItOrNot for her assistance and advice and encouragement. Love ya, old Phoebe.**

**Shell x**


	4. Chapter 4

_**You and Me, finally.**_

* * *

**Edward.**

* * *

_Three years later._

Coming home to you is like a weight lifted, like the deepest sigh of relief. Even though our apartment is cramped, and our furniture cheap or second-hand, here, with you, is home.

But today, when I open the door, and see _her_ sitting at our kitchen table, a different kind of sigh builds in my chest. It's less relief and more, well, disappointment.

You're not exactly relaxed, either. I can see it in the way your fingers knot together in your lap. It's there in the way your teeth scrape over your bottom lip as you look between me and her while I toe off my shoes. It's there in the few seconds it takes for the smile on your lips to reach your eyes.

I resent that, and rightly or wrongly, I blame Alice for it.

I don't like her.

No, it's not that. Not really.

I guess I don't _trust_ her. I don't trust her not to hurt you, the person I love more than anyone else in the world. I mean, I'm sure I'd like her just fine if I wasn't constantly worried you were going to come home nursing a bruised self-esteem every time you hang out with her.

We've talked about it, on occasion, but most of the time you're quick to change the subject, and I'm quick to let you because I don't really want her to come between us.

But … the way she speaks to you bothers me. A lot.

"_Oh, you guys are going out? Oh, that's okay. I'm sure I'll find something to do."_

"_No, no. I'm fine. Seriously, don't even think about me. Just go have fun."_

"_If Edward will let you, can you come over? I need you."_

"_I just … I thought you, of all people, would understand what it feels like to be abandoned by a parent."_

When she's feeling like shit, it's like she needs to bring you down with her. I worry that she's using you as an emotional punching bag. I mean, I understand, —she's just doing what her mother did to her her whole life. And maybe she doesn't know any better, but it sucks, and I hate it.

But I don't know what to do if you can't, or don't want to, see it.

So I tolerate her presence for your sake. I go out of my way to ask about her, to include her in things, because I don't want you to feel caught between us. I won't make you choose between us. I wonder if she can say the same thing?

"Hi, Alice."

"Hi." She spares me only a glance and a tight-lipped smile before looking back at her textbook and highlighting a line of text in yellow.

"Hey, baby." Your smile melts away my irritation.

Placing my hands on the table, careful not to disturb your laptop or the papers and books spread out in front of you, I lean down to kiss your cheek. Over your shoulder, I see Alice roll her eyes—_What the hell? _

I push it from my mind and focus on the feel of your soft skin beneath my lips, the scent of your moisturise. I trail kisses down your cheek until I match my lips to yours. You're eager, deepening the kiss immediately, your unspoken "I missed you today." I kiss you hard, telling you, "me, too." The little noise that slips from your mouth into mine reverberates in my chest and shoots toward my groin. I pull away, my heart thundering in my chest like is a runaway train.

"Hey."

You smile. "How was your day?"

"Okay." I rub my neck, pushing my thumb into an aching muscle. My organic chemistry lab ran late and my lab partner very nearly screwed up our experiment, but I think I managed to undo the damage he did. I'll tell you about it later.

You trace beneath my eyes. "You look tired, baby."

I catch your wrist and kiss your fingertips. "A little. I'm fine."

"We're almost done here," you say quietly. "We just need to write up a conclusion."

I hear Alice's huff, and I guess you do, too, but we both ignore it. It's harder to ignore the tap of her nails against the table top.

"Okay. I'll leave you to it." I kiss your temple. "I'll grab a beer and watch some TV." I straighten up, but don't pull my hand from yours. Your cool, familiar touch is soothing after the afternoon's stress.

"Do either of you want a drink? Alice? D'you want a beer or a soda?"

She shakes her head. "No, thank you. We'll just get this done and I'll get out of your hair."

I wave her off. "Take your time." I squeeze your fingers as I look down at you. "Beer, babe?"

You nod. "Thanks."

I let go of your hand reluctantly. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I rummage through the drawers, looking for a bottle opener. I eventually remember you hung it from a cord in the pantry because we got sick of losing it. I pop open two bottles, set your beer on the table, and head into our bedroom to change my shirt.

I flick on the TV set in our room and keep the volume low. Lying across our bed, a pillow stuffed behind my neck, I'm not really paying any attention to whichever politician is droning on about whatever policy platform anyway. I've only switched it on for company until you're finished with your assignment.

Rubbing my fingers across soft cotton, I frown at the comforter. I'm pretty sure it was deep purple this morning. I close my eyes and remember waking you up by pressing kisses across your bare shoulders, my hand between your legs. Images flicker in my mind, your hair spread across the pillows, your fingers twisting the sheets—yep, they were definitely purple when I climbed out of bed this morning, already running late for my eight o'clock lecture.

You must have changed the sheets and the covers after I left, because our bedspread is now sunshine yellow with little lines of embroidery or whatever it's called trailing a swirly pattern across it. I frown. _When did you buy this set? Why am I even noticing the bed sheets? When can I see you naked against this backdrop?_

The last thought pushes all the others into the background. It's my favorite color on you, and I'm suddenly desperate to see your dark hair and pale skin against the vivid yellow of the covers. I press the hand not curled around my beer against my crotch, groaning softly.

Only a conclusion to write, you said. That shouldn't take long.

I take a long drink from my beer, then press the cold glass to my temple. A drop of condensation trickles down the side of my face. The day is starting to catch up with me. I'm tired, my neck is stiff, and I'm fucking annoyed that Alice is still here.

I set my almost empty beer on the nightstand and fold my hands behind my head.

* * *

"Baby?"

I blink against the near-dark room like I'm expecting it to brighten. The television is off.

"Edward?"

"Yeah." I answer with a croak. Feeling disoriented and groggy, I sit up and fumble for the lamp switch.

You stand in the doorway, your expression wavering between concern and amusement. "We're finished. Alice is going now."

"Coming." Scrubbing my hands over my face, I climb off the bed.

In the kitchen, Alice is stuffing her books and pens into her bag.

You hand her a sheaf of papers. "I'll write the rest of it up in the morning and email it to you. Feel free to make any changes."

"Sure." She picks up her keys and spins them around her finger.

I figure I should play nice. "Got plans tonight, Alice?"

She looks at you as she answers. "There's a party at James's. I was going to see if you wanted to go." Her expression shifts a little. "But I guess I'll be going by myself, judging by the way Edward's looking at you."

Annoyance crawls up my spine—until you smile up at me. Your expression is open, your eyes clear. I can't tell if you're oblivious to her guilt-trip or if you're choosing to ignore it.

"It's a been a busy week," you say. "We've hardly spent any time together."

"Aw, that's cool." Alice's smile is so genuine it throws me. Maybe I misread her. I'm tired and still not quite awake, and my neck feels worse than it did before I lay down, and maybe I'm letting that get to me.

"I think we're going to Riley's on Thursday, though," you offer.

She lifts one shoulder. "Cool. I might see you there."

"Let me know, okay?" you say.

"Yep." She shifts her bag against her hip. "All right, I can tell when I've overstayed my welcome."

"No–"

"It's not–"

She cuts off our protests. "Kidding, guys." She kisses your cheek and nods in my direction. "I'll see you later."

When the door closes behind her, your sigh echoes mine.

Looking up at me, you suck on your bottom lip for a moment, your forehead creased with concern. "Baby, are you sure you're okay?"

"I am now," I say.

You slide your arms around my waist and fit your body against mine, and it makes my words true.

Your head against my chest, my cheek against your hair, I can feel your heartbeat against my ribs, and this is what I was looking for when I first got home. The rest of the world—the labs I nearly fucked up today, the research report you've got to turn in this week, the stress of finals approaching—all of it slips from my mind and this moment is all that matters.

My hand under your chin, I tip your face up and press my lips to yours. You kiss me back with an intensity that steals my breath and sets my heart racing.

My hands are under your shirt, climbing the ladder of your ribcage when you pull away.

"We should … dinner … and you're tired."

I have to smile. Wrapping my arms around your hips I pull you close, pressing my pelvis to yours. You gasp. "Does it feel like I'm tired?"

That soft whimpering noise I love falls from your lips.

You grip the waistband of my jeans as I walk you backward into our bedroom. I let go of you to pull my shirt off, and you make quick work of pulling my jeans and boxers to my ankles.

Kneeling before me, your lips part and I can feel your humid breath against my skin. I shake my head and pull you to your feet. I love _that_, I do, but tonight, I just want to make love to you.

With your dark hair rippling across the pillow, your eyes almost golden in the warm lamplight, your skin pale, you're stunning against the yellow. I knew you would be.

I cover your body with mine and we move together slowly, years of familiarity guiding us. When you do _that_, I do _this_, and we take our time, enjoying each other, loving the feel of being as close as two people can possibly be.

Your back arches, pressing your breasts against my chest as you come undone, and I don't think I'll ever be able to get enough of hearing you say my name like that, like you can barely manage to form the word but you just have to say it. It makes my chest expand to bursting and pushes me into my own release.

Dopey and sleepy-smiling, I help you clean up, and then we crawl under the quilt, still naked, and with our ankles tangled and our fingers entwined, we catch up on the day. I tell you about my idiot lab partner and how he not only almost screwed up our experiment, but how I caught him trying to tip organic compounds down the sink. You tell me about the Philosophy of Feminism seminar you had this morning, and the research project you and Alice are finishing up. I tell you I'm worried about trying to juggle summer school and working for my uncle, and you tell me that you've been ignoring your mom's calls for the last two days because you don't have the emotional energy to deal with her at the moment.

And as much as I love having sex with you—and I do, like, _a lot_—this is my favorite thing ever. When we just lie here and let the rest of the world fade into nothing, and we strip our souls as naked as our bodies.

You grow quiet after a while, lines creasing your forehead and your lip between your teeth.

I kiss your forehead, trying to smooth away the worry that rests there. "What's wrong?"

I feel more than hear your sigh. "I … I don't know."

I wriggle closer, untangling a hand and brushing your hair off your face. "Are you sure?"

You frown at me. There's a note of defensiveness in your voice. "I'd tell you if I knew. I guess … I'm probably just tired."

"Okay." I let the subject drop. "What do you want to do this weekend?"

"Nothing."

"Just a quiet one?"

"Yeah." You look past me for a moment, thinking. "We can't afford to go away somewhere, but can we have like a – what's the word? … A stay-cation?"

I squint at you. "A stay-cation?"

Your smile is small as you meet my gaze. "Yeah. Like, we stay in and pretend we're on vacation. No cooking, no cleaning, no studying. Just you and me, hanging out, having fun."

"Can we be naked the entire time?"

That makes your smile grow. "Hmm. Possibly."

Naked or not, I can't think of anything I'd like more. "Sounds kinda perfect to me."

* * *

When we get home from class on Friday afternoon, we draw the blinds, unplug the phone and lock the front door.

Sprawled on the couch, we feed each other chinese take-out—you using chopsticks and me with a fork, because I've never managed to master those stupid things—and finish a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. We watch _Chicago_ and I pretend to hate it and you laugh at me because you know I'm enjoying it.

We sit up until after three in the morning. You kick my ass in Scrabble, then I kick yours in gin rummy, and then you pout for a while and decide you don't want to play games anymore.

"Okay," you say, when I ask you what you want to do next. "Let's play this game."

"You said you're done with games."

You poke your tongue out at me. "Card games and board games, yes. This is a … um, a people game. A talking game."

"How do I win?"

"You don't. No winning."

I laugh. "How is it a game then?"

"Stop being annoying," you say, poking me in the waist. "Listen. Okay. Imagine this. Imagine Emmett was asleep. Right there." You point to the carpet in front of the couch. "And you find out that he's going to die unless you kick him. You have to kick him as hard as you can in the ribs or he'll never ever wake up. But, if you tell him why, he dies anyway. So you kick him, and he wakes up and he says 'What the fuck did you do that for?' What would you tell him?"

_What?_ "If I open another bottle of wine, will you have some?" I stand up, my spine cracking as I stretch.

"Yes, please. But don't think I'm going to forget to make you answer."

When we're settled on the couch again, glasses of Syrah in hand, I return to your question. "I'd just tell him I tripped over him."

You scrunch up your nose. "That might work. I think he'd still punch you, though."

I shrug. "Probably. But who cares? He'd be alive enough to punch me."

"Aww." You lean over and pat my knee. "You're such a sweetheart."

I tell you I'm not sure being called a sweetheart is something most guys want to hear, and ask you what you'd do in the same situation.

You giggle. "I'd tell him he had a huge spider crawling on him."

"But there's no spider squashed on his shirt."

You roll your eyes at me. "Okay, then I'd say I _thought_ I saw a huge spider crawling on him. It doesn't matter. He might be pissed off, but he's not going to try and hit me."

That's true. We trade ridiculous questions back and forth for a while, getting sillier—"What would win in a fight, a shark or a rhinoceros?"—as the wine bottle empties.

"It's my turn now," you say, pointing a finger towards me. You set your empty glass on the coffee table. "All right. If you could only kiss me, or have sex with me, forever more, which would you choose?"

"What?"

"Like, if you had to pick. Kissing and no sex, or sex and no kissing. Which one?"

I shake my head. "I don't want to pick." _As if I could choose!_

"You have to, or you get none."

I look at you with wide eyes. "Are you being serious?"

"No. I'm being _hypothetical_, Edward. That's the point. Now answer the damn question."

I shrug. "Kisses."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm." I give you one now, tasting the wine on your lips. "Think about it," I say, moving my lips to your cheek, then your neck. "Think about _all_ the places I can kiss you. It's an easy choice."

"Edward?"

"Yeah?" I pull back to look at you.

"I don't want to play this game anymore."

I smirk. "Really? You got a better idea?"

You nod. "Kisses," you say, your voice a little faint. "In all those places."

* * *

In the morning, I'm dragged from sleep by your cell phone vibrating on my nightstand. Groaning, I sit up.

"Leave it," you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. "We're on stay-cation. It can wait."

Rubbing my eyes open, I lean over to look at the screen—I feel like I should check who it is, on the off chance it's an emergency.

_Alice Brandon_

I sigh. There's a small part of me that doesn't want to tell you, but I push that selfishness away. "It's Alice."

You groan, rolling over to face me. Your hair is a mess and your cheek is flushed pink and creased with the lines of your pillowcase. You're so beautiful.

"Just leave it," you say.

_Thank fuck._ The little device goes still and silent. I flop back onto my pillow.

"Baby?"

Your hand sliding up my arm pushes away any lingering annoyance, replacing it with desire. Smirking, I roll us over, enjoying the way your breathing speeds and your eyes close when my lips find your collarbone. I kiss across your chest, getting distracted for a while by the feel of your hard nipples against my tongue, then making my way lower. You tangle your fingers in my hair when my shoulders are between your thighs and my mouth finds hot flesh. The noises you make … _fuck_ … they drive me crazy, and my hips move faster against the mattress as you moan and gasp and call my name.

I crawl back up your body, enjoying the small smile that plays on your lips. I did that.

You wrinkle your nose, but you don't stop me from kissing you. "Kisses … So good," you murmur when I release your lips. You push at my shoulder, stopping me from claiming them again. I let you roll us over, and then I watch you, every nerve in my body standing on end, as you trail kisses lower and lower until your mouth is on me and my hands are in your hair and our eyes are locked. I don't last long, and I'm almost embarrassed except I can't be because it's getting you off that turns me on and I'm pretty sure there's nothing shameful in that.

We spend the rest of the afternoon dozing and kissing and teasing until I can't stand it anymore and we make love again, filling our bedroom with giggles and gasps and the sound of skin slipping against skin.

* * *

Later that evening, after dinner, as you're washing up, and I'm drying, your phone starts to vibrate across the kitchen counter.

My thumb finds a knot of tension in my neck as I look down at it. "It's Alice again."

Your lips pursed, you hesitate, then reach for the dishcloth I'm holding. Drying your hands, you look between me and your buzzing cell phone.

"Answer it, if you need to." _Please don't answer it._

"I–I mean, I told her what we were doing … that I wouldn't be around at all this weekend."

Settling my hands on your hips, I duck my head to meet your gaze. "Then leave it."

"Okay."

The tension doesn't leave your body. I sigh. "Babe–"

"It must be important then, right? If she's calling, knowing we were going off the radar for the weekend?"

I don't want to fight with you, not this weekend, not when we promised we'd spend the weekend focused only on us. My forehead against your shoulder, I pull you close. You resist me for a moment, and it stings, but then your body moulds to mine, your hands sliding around my waist.

"Why don't you text her? Check what's up. Maybe she just forgot we had plans." Somehow I doubt that.

"Okay." You make no move to reach for your phone, which surprises me. Lifting my head, I unwind an arm from your waist to cup your cheek. When you look up at me, I can see the conflict in your eyes.

"You know," I hesitate, but then push on, because I don't know if you've ever thought about this. "You don't have to. It's okay. You don't have to be there for her every minute of every day. You can't. It's not possible, and it's … it's not fair for her to expect you to."

"I know." Your eyes are on the now silent phone. Shaking your head, you sigh. "No. I said this weekend was about us—I told her that. She can wait 'til Monday."

The tightness in my chest that I'd been trying to pretend wasn't there loosens.

I put the dry glasses away, and reach for your hand. "You wanna watch a movie? Play a game?"

You shake your head. "No, not really."

"Um …" I wonder what else we can do. "Read?"

You grin. "Will you read to me?"

Like I'd say no to you. "What am I reading?"

"Whatever you want."

I grab the first book my fingers touch from the shelf—a slightly worn copy of _The Kite Runner_, and you lie with your head in my lap as I start reading. You're asleep before I even get to page twenty.

Tenting the book on the coffee table, I stroke the hair off your face, watching the way your eyelids twitch as you dream. I wonder how much to read into the lines that crease your brow and the purse of your lips.

I tell myself not to worry. You've always been open with me.

* * *

Sunday is beautiful. The rain drums against the windows, and jagged bolts of lightning cut across the sky as thunder rumbles overhead. It's a perfect day to stay holed up in our apartment. We stay in bed until lunchtime, just talking and kissing and being together. We needed this.

After lunch, we take turns in the shower. As much as I'd like to shower with you, there's just not enough room. We've tried before—a number of times, just to make sure—and it's far more irritating than it is sexy, stepping on each others toes and your elbows jabbing me in the belly.

I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my waist, wondering if I can tempt you back to bed.

"Yeah, I understand … No, no. It's okay … It's fine." You're standing at the window, turned away from me. You're holding your cell phone to your ear, your other hand tugging the end of your ponytail. "Yep … Okay … No, he won't mind at all … Okay. I'll be there soon, sweetie."

You don't turn around immediately. The hand holding your cell phone drops to your side, and the other comes to your temple, massaging tight circles—the way you do when you're developing a tension headache. You stare out at the rain beating down, seemingly unaware of my presence.

"Everything okay?"

You turn around slowly, your eyes on the floor. The name I expect falls from your lips. "Alice …"

I push a hard breath through my nose. _Be calm._ "What about her?"

"She's … she needs me, Edward. She's not doing so good."

I rub a hand over my face, squeezing my eyes closed, like I can block out my frustration somehow. "I thought … _fuck_. Bella …" This was supposed to be our weekend. And maybe it's selfish and petty of me, when I've had you to myself since Friday night, but the weekend isn't over yet.

I take a deep breath and try again. "It really can't wait until tomorrow?"

"No, it can't." You fold your arms across your chest. "I'm sorry, I know we said this weekend was all about us, but we've had quite a bit of time together and I just – it's selfish of me to not go to her when she's really down."

Maybe she's spun some guilt-trip on you, playing on your tender heart to make you think sticking to our original plan is selfishness on your part. "It's not selfish," I say.

"What?"

"It's not selfish of you to stay here … with me. No matter what she insinuated. You don't have to drop everything for her everytime she calls."

"What do you mean _insinuated_? She didn't insinuate anything. She just asked me if I could come over and spend some time with her because she's really struggling this weekend. It would have been her parents' wedding anniversary."

How convenient. "Of course it would."

"What? You think she'd lie about something like that?" You tip your head at me, your eyes narrowing. "Do you think she's lying? Why – why would you even think that?"

Everything I've been wanting to say for months tumbles out into the space between us. "Because, babe, this is what she does. She manipulates and uses you when she's feeling like crap. She can't stand you being happy, so she – she finds ways of dragging you down. You told her we'd be keeping to ourselves this weekend. Did she say anything then about her parents, about it being a hard weekend for her? She – it's almost like she wants to cause problems between us."

"I think you're being ridiculous," you say. You close your eyes like you're trying to stop yourself from rolling them at me. "It's not – it's not all about you, Edward."

I turn my back on you, fists at my sides, and try to swallow my anger. "I know it's not all about me. I'm not concerned about me right now. I'm concerned about you, and the way she—even though she constantly belittles you and manipulates you—expects you to drop everything for her. I'm not concerned about what _I'm_ missing out on, Bella."

Turning back to face you, I continue. "I'm concerned – _fuck_ – about what _you're_ missing out on. I'm concerned that she's taking advantage of you, and I'm concerned that she doesn't show you the same care and kindness when _you_ need it."

Uncertainty creases your brow, and I can see the confusion in your eyes. You close them for a moment, chewing on your lip. When you look at me again, I see guilt cross your face before your expression hardens. "Are you saying I can't go?"

"Have I – would I ever say you _can't_ do something?" I shake my head. "I'm _asking_ you not to go."

You go.

You pull on some jeans, tie your hair back, grab your bag, and then you're gone.

I spend the afternoon watching shitty television programs. I eat cereal for dinner, then lie down on the couch, waiting for you to come home.

I'm still lying there when my alarm goes off the next morning.

* * *

For the next few days, the tension in our little home is uncomfortable. You're still angry with me, and I'm too chicken shit to say anything to you for fear it will just make things worse. We eat dinner in silence, and go to bed earlier than we normally would.

By Wednesday night, I can't take it anymore. I flick off the television. "Can we talk?"

You stand up. "My head hurts. I'm going to bed."

"Bella–"

"Goodnight."

* * *

I should've skipped my organic chemistry lecture. I look at the pages of chemical equations in front of me, and they blur together. The powerpoint slides projected on the screen at the front of the theater might as well be in Greek, for all I'm managing to understand.

The end of my day can't come fast enough. I need to be with you, and we need to talk.

When class finally finishes—what seems like three days later—I decide to walk home from campus, rather than catch the bus as I usually do. Sunny weather in Seattle is a rarity, and I want to enjoy the last of it. I pull my sweater off and stuff it in my bag. The sunshine on my skin can't warm the chill that sits deep in my chest, but I choose to take it as a good sign. An omen or whatever.

I make my way home slowly, stepping over the cracks in the pavement the way I watched Rosie do it last summer. In the corner of my mind that's not preoccupied with thinking about how to fix things up with you, I remind myself to Skype my family. It's Rosie's birthday next week and I've been a pretty shitty big brother of late. I wonder if you'll agree to head back to Forks to surprise her. I'll have to check with Mom—and pray that we're okay by then.

I shake my head, like I can dislodge that thought. We'll be fine.

Trudging up the stairs to our floor, I start turning over ideas, wondering if there's some kind of gesture I could make to show you how much you matter to me. But you're not really a rose petals and bubble-baths kind of girl.

Unlocking the front door, I realize what I have to do. I have to trust your judgement, even when I think you're wrong. My first instinct is to protect you, but you don't need my protection. You need me to respect your decisions, even if I think you're falling headlong toward hurt. And if that happens there should be no "I told you so," only "I'm here for you," and "I love you."

With the afternoon sun sliding golden and warm through the grimy kitchen windows, our apartment is quiet but for hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic _plink-plink_ of the leaking kitchen tap. I've called the landlord twice this week to see about getting that fixed, but I think I'm going to end up having to do it myself. Shouldn't be too hard—I'll go to the hardware store after class tomorrow and grab some O-rings and washers.

Stepping out of my shoes, I toss them into the bright green bucket by the door. I dump my books and my messenger bag on the kitchen table, and then shake my head at myself as I imagine your eyebrows arching. I scoop up my books and set them on the sideboard with my keys and wallet, and hang my bag on the hook beside yours.

I frown at the worn red leather bag. I wasn't expecting you to be home yet. You have classes all afternoon on a Thursday, and you usually don't get home until after six o'clock.

I open the bedroom door, and my heart feels lead-heavy in my chest as I look down at you.

Sunlight spills across your face, shining on the tears that are dripping down your cheeks, soaking a dark patch in the yellow pillow case.

"Bella?"

You sniffle, but don't answer me. Your arms tighten around your pillow. No, _my_ pillow. It registers that you're curled up on my side of the bed.

"What's going on? Headache? Are you sick?" I lean over and press the back of my hand to your forehead. You're warm but not feverish. "Are you okay, beautiful?"

You catch my hand, your clammy fingers closing around my wrist. "No." You tug once, then release me with a stifled sob.

_No, you're not sick, or no, you're not okay?_

"Hey." Lifting the edge of the comforter, I climb into bed, forcing you to wriggle over a little to make room for me. I put my hand on your waist under the covers and press my lips to your cheek. They come away wet with your tears.

You look at me, finally. Your eyes are rimmed with red and your face is streaked with the grey and black residue of your mascara. "I'm sorry." The words hang over us, quiet and broken.

"No, no. Babe, you have nothing to be sorry for."

I speak, the words tumbling out to fill the silence stretching between us. "_I'm_ sorry. I was wrong to push you about Alice. She's your friend, and if you needed to go see her, then – I'm sorry. Of course you should go. I guess I was being a bit selfish."

You pull my hand off your hip and thread your fingers through mine.

"I'm sorry, babe." I kiss your temple. "I love you."

"Thank you for saying that." Your voice is scratchy and hoarse. You lift your head and kiss my cheek. Pushing on my shoulder, you wriggle until you're lying half on me, our legs tangled. I run my fingers through your hair, enjoying the weight of your head on my chest, the beat of your heart against my ribs, and the warmth of your forgiveness.

I'm almost sure you're asleep when you speak, your voice soft. "I had a fight with Alice this morning."

Despite the conversation I had with myself on the way home, it takes some effort to stay silent.

"I want to tell you about it," you say. "But I need you to listen to me, and I need you to not jump to conclusions."

You words sting a little, but I let them slide. "Okay."

You sigh, lifting your head, and pushing your hair away from your face. "It wasn't really a big deal. She made some sarcastic comment and I over-reacted. I can't even remember what she said."

I wait.

"So we sort of had a fight. Because I told her that sometimes her comments hurt more than she realizes, and she thinks I've become over-sensitive because I'm listening to you too much and you don't like her."

"I–"

You hold up your finger and I swallow the words back down.

"I think we're both right, Edward. Both Alice and I, I mean. We talked for a long time, and we realized that I take things to heart when she means nothing by it, and she's been kind of careless with my feelings."

You blow out a deep breath. "She apologized. She admitted she often speaks first and thinks later, and that sometimes she's too harsh."

I nod. I appreciate her admitting that.

"But I–I need to not feel caught between the two of you. I know you don't trust her, and I try to see your point of view, and sometimes, I can. She can come across as catty—if I'm looking for offense, I can find it."

My heart sinks like a stone.

"And then when I try to see her point of view, I realize she doesn't mean to hurt me. And I just … I love you both, but it's really hard on me. I love you, Edward, so much. But she's my best friend, and even when she is being a smart-ass, she cares for me, like, a lot."

All this time, I thought I was being the bigger person and not trying to come between you, and yet I've managed to do it anyway.

Your hand on my chest, the smile you offer me is small and full of understanding. "Do you think that maybe you've been, I don't know, not imagining things, but seeing what you expected to?"

"I don't–" I clear my throat. "What do you mean?"

"I guess … you and I became close just after Alice _had_ really hurt me. And for a while there, she was pretty awful to me. And I think … maybe, you haven't let go of that. I know it's because you worry for me, because you care for me and want to protect me, but maybe you're kind of looking for things, reading too much into offhand remarks because you've built up a picture of who Alice is in your head?"

My denial is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. I need to think.

Closing my eyes, I flip through countless memories, trying to look at them from different angles. I see you smiling. I see the two of you dissolving into giggles. I see you, heads bent together, eyes serious, as you engage in conversation. And while I still see that flash of hurt in your eyes occasionally, I have a lot more memories of the two of you enjoying each others' company.

She has been a good friend to you. I have to admit that. Through your senior year, she was always there for you—when I couldn't be. The barista gig I took that year meant I could save the money that's cushioning us through college now, but it also meant long hours and the frustration of not being able to see you as much as I wanted to. It meant there were weekends where we hardly saw each other. And she was always there for you. You both put _that_ incident behind you, and fell back on twelve years of unbiological-sisterhood.

Maybe you're right. Maybe in wanting so much to be "on your side," I've actually created the sides—when there shouldn't be any.

"Edward?" The hesitance in your voice draws me back to the present.

"I think–" I scrub a hand over my face. "I just … I never wanted to see you hurt again after that shit with Jasper, and the thing with your birthmark, and I …" I push out a breath. Admitting I'm wrong sucks. So does realizing I've caused you so much hurt.

"I'm sorry. I–I … old habits are …" I shake my head. I don't want to make excuses. "You're right, I haven't been seeing things clearly, and I didn't even see how hard I was making things for you. I never meant to make you feel caught between us. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you, Edward."

You smile up at me, and I know that's that. Done. We're all good.

You forgive so easily. It's who you are, and it's one of the things I've always loved about you. You forgave Alice, and I remember being amazed by it. I remember falling harder for you as I watched you put aside your hurt and love her when she needed your support.

And now that that forgiveness is directed at me?

I fall in love with you all over again.

I fall so hard that I wonder if this is how I'll spend the rest of my life, with this giddy feeling that has bottom of my stomach dropping out and my heart accelerating.

I hope so.

* * *

Summer flies past, a whirlwind of work and summer school and sleeping late on Sundays and making love to you, and it feels like we've barely had time to relax before the fall semester starts.

I don't mind though. This is our life for now, juggling classes and part-time jobs, pulling all-nighters to get assignments done and cramming before exams. We're busy, but we're together, and as hectic as it is, I love our life.

And of course, when things get too much and we're missing each other too hard, one of us will demand a stay-cation, and we stock the fridge, lock our front door and let the rest of the world go to hell.

We see a lot of Alice, too. I watch the two of you, as I always have, but now, I try to look at things in a new light. It takes me some time—old habits do die hard—but when I start to look for reasons to like her, the ways she's good to you, I can find them.

Like the smile you wear around her, or the way your giggles ring through our apartment when the two of you get together. Or the way she she drops over a casserole with the notes you missed when you spend a week in bed with the 'flu.

And the more I grow to like her, the warmer she seems to be. Not just toward you, but me as well.

* * *

The music is pulsing in the house behind us, but out in the yard it's quiet enough for conversation. With a barely-sipped beer in one hand, you're standing with a couple of girls you go to school with, and I'm half-listening to your conversation as some guy I've met several times, but whose name I always forget, tells me all about his plans to revolutionize the Seattle restaurant scene. He's drunk and his words are falling all over each other.

"So, Bella," some girl says. There's a nasty undercurrent in her voice that catches my attention. "I've never really understood why you're a Women's Studies major when you're obviously not a feminist."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Your voice is quiet.

"Girl, you've been dating the same guy since high school. That doesn't exactly scream liberated, if you know what I mean."

I frown, and wobbly-drunk guy waves a finger at me. "You'll see. You'll see, man. I'm a … I have all these ideas. So many ideas. And I just get people, you know? I get them."

"Of course you do," I say.

Another girl joins the conversation. "Seriously. Have you even slept with anyone else?"

"I–"

"Hmm, so calling a woman a slut is unacceptable, but it's okay to mock her for not sleeping around enough?" Alice interrupts. "My bad, I thought the key thing was her _choice_. You know, a woman's right to live out her choices, without judgement."

I've noticed that before, the way she slides into your conversations, and I'd always read it as her wanting to be the center of attention. But hearing the way your voice strengthens now, I realize I've misread her—again. This is Alice's equivalent of a clap on your shoulder, her "I've got your back." This is her being a good friend to you.

"Exactly. Whether I sleep with dozens of men, or only one, Kim, that's my choice. I'd be well within my rights to do either."

Hearing the debate pick up behind me, you and Alice tag-teaming as you challenge Kim and her friend, I have to grin.

The drunk dude's eyes go wide. "I like chicks, man," he says, patting my arm. "You're pretty, but that's not my thing."

This guy's a riot. He wobbles away, shaking his head.

I glance over my shoulder. You shoot me a wink and I blow you a kiss.

Alice rolls her eyes at us. "Edward, I need another beer."

I chuckle. "On it."

* * *

The days are growing shorter and colder, and it's already dark by the time I step off the bus. I shiver as I jog up the stairs to our apartment. It's going to be a stupidly cold winter, I think.

A burst of warmth envelopes me as I step inside, and I start shucking my jacket before the door's swung closed.

"Edward?"

"Yep."

You wander out of the bedroom, holding two dresses on their hangers, and wearing only a pair of black lace panties. I'm pretty sure my jaw comes to rest on the toes of my chucks.

"Which one?"

Colorful fabric swishes across my field of vision, obscuring your breasts.

"Huh?"

You giggle. "Focus, baby. Which dress should I wear tonight?"

"Yeah." I step toward you, but you hold up the dresses like a shield.

"Don't," you say, but I can hear your smile. "We don't have time. We have to leave in fifteen minutes and I haven't put my makeup on yet."

I pout. "But–"

"But nothing. I'm not going to have Alice sitting there smirking at me through the entire meal when we turn up late. You can do whatever you want to me when we get home."

I groan. You're trying to kill me, I know it. Now I'm going to spend the entire night imagining all the things I want to do with you when I get you back home.

"I think I'll wear the yellow one."

You're evil.

You laugh, like you're reading my mind. "Come on, hornball. You need to get changed."

Half an hour later, we're seated in the swanky-looking restaurant. I tap my watch to remind you that I behaved and we're here on time.

You press a kiss to my cheek. "Thanks, baby. I'll make it up to you."

Alice slides into the booth opposite us with a smile I can now read as nervous. "Thanks so much for doing this."

You reach across the table and pat her hand. "Any time, sweetie."

She nods, and then rolls her shoulders. Her fingernails drum against the wood tabletop for a moment before she snatches them away. "I love your dress, Bel," she says. "That color looks amazing on you."

When you asked me how I felt about double-dating, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic. I mean, why would I want to do that when I could just take you out and have you all to myself? But you seemed so excited, and hell, I'm all for anything that's going to make you happy.

And then you explained that Alice was freaking out about a blind date another friend had set her up on, and that she'd be more comfortable if there were other people there, too, and I couldn't say no.

I didn't want to, either.

Which is how I find myself, my thigh pressed against yours, sizing up this punk sitting across from me as he answers my questions about his job and his friends and his hobbies.

His name is Garrett, and to be honest, he seems kind of cool. I wonder what the ethics of that are? If Alice doesn't want to see him again, is it against the dating-rules for me to ask her for his number?

Though, the way she's smiling at him, her eyes crinkled with laughter, I have a feeling we're going to see this dude again.

My suspicions are confirmed when we're standing on the pavement outside the restaurant, and I see Alice whip out her diary. I watch them for a moment, playing with your fingers.

She smiles up at him, and I have to look away as they do the awkward "do we shake, hug, or kiss goodbye?" dance. I don't know which they choose.

You tug my hand. "Home?"

I grin. "Let's go." You made a promise earlier this evening, and I intend to collect on it.

Alice calls out as I'm pulling my keys from my pocket. "Bella. Edward."

We turn back and she catches up to us quickly. "Just … thanks so much. I know you probably had better things to do on a Friday night."

I shake my head at her. "It's fine. Let's do it again soon."

"Seriously?" She raises her eyebrows

"Sure," I tell her. "We had fun." I look at you. "Well, I had fun."

You smile, shaking your head and winking at Alice. "We had fun."

Her eyes blink fast. I think she's touched. "Thank you," she says.

"No problem."

You kiss her cheek, and I give her a brief hug. "We'll see ya soon."

* * *

It's my grandmother who puts the idea in my head. She corners me in the kitchen after Thanksgiving lunch, where I'm helping my mom, rinsing the dishes before she stacks them in the dishwasher. You're in the living room, playing card games with Rosie, and we'll be heading over to cook dinner for your Dad as soon as Nan's kitchen is clean.

"Esme, I need to steal Edward for a moment," she says.

Mom smiles at my raised eyebrows. "He's all yours." She winks at me.

I follow Nan down the hallway, wrinkling my nose when she opens her bedroom door.

"Oh, hush," she says. "Come on."

The scent of lavender and soap makes me feel six years old again.

Nan shuffles around to her bedside table, opening up her jewelry box and poking around inside. She nods to herself as she picks up something small.

She sits down on the edge of her bed and pats the comforter. "Come here."

Bemused, I sit beside her. She extends her age-spotted hand to me.

"Um–"

"It was my first engagement ring," she tells me, placing the tarnished gold ring in my hand. Its stone is missing, its claws empty.

"Your first? Nan … You and Pa–" The thought of my grandmother with someone else is just too much. She and my grandfather were married for more than fifty years.

"Oh, don't be silly, boy." She chuckles. "Your grandfather gave me this one, too. I lost it, you see, so he bought me this one–" she taps her left hand "–to replace it. We only found it when we moved house. Goodness, that was … well, it was missing for about ten years, I suppose."

I don't really know what to say, so I state the obvious. "It's missing the stone."

"It's here," she says, tapping her chest. A tiny diamond dangles from her necklace.

"Okay." I still have no idea where she's going with this.

She seems to realize I'm clueless, sighing and patting my knee. "It might not be to her tastes, but if it is, you could always have another stone set in it, you know."

"Uh–" I look at the ring, then back at my grandmother.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Edward. You are going to ask Isabella to marry you, are you not?"

"Of course." The answer is automatic, and the words are already out of my mouth when I finally understand. "Oh. _Oh_."

Nan shakes her head. "As I said, she might prefer something different, but I just wanted you to have this. In case." Her gaze seemingly fixes on something far away.

I look at her for a moment, my eyes narrowing. "You mean you wanted to put the idea of proposing to her in my head."

Nan's smile is sly. "Perhaps." She takes the ring from me, sliding it onto her pinky finger. "It'll clean up easily enough," she says. "It's rose gold. A little unusual, perhaps."

Looking at the delicate metalwork against her age-lined skin, my throat feels a little tight. I imagine Bella's hands that wrinkly, her skin paper-thin and marked with the years we'll have spent loving each other. I swallow hard. "It's perfect. Thank you, Nan."

She pats my back when I wrap my arms around her, hugging her as tight as I dare.

"Find a pretty rock to fit it, and marry that sweet girl, Edward."

* * *

As soon as we get back to Seattle after the Christmas break, I start diamond hunting. I learn all about the four Cs of diamonds—cut, clarity, color and carat weight—and within a few weeks, I've found the perfect stone.

I'm looking at the diamond resting on the black velvet, listening to this old guy with lines around his eyes and mouth so deep I'm convinced he's spent his whole life smiling assure me in his thick accent that it will fit Nan's ring "most perfect, young sir," when a random thought enters my mind, and I experience a strange moment of gratitude in the most peculiar direction.

I never imagined I would entertain this thought, but in this moment, I'm grateful … to Alice.

Sitting on the black fabric, the diamond shines bright, it's clarity and brilliance enhanced by the dull and dark background. Light scatters tiny rainbows as it's refracted through the gemstone.

Even as I lift my head to smile at the old jeweler, nodding my approval, I'm seeing you sitting against the brick wall of the gym at Forks High School, a cigarette between your lips and a bag of ice held against your bruised knuckles.

I hated seeing you hurting, but over four years later, I find it hard to be anything but thankful.

I know she meant to dull your shine. But really, all she did was show everyone how strong you really are. And that one act of spitefulness opened the door of your life to me. You let me in that day, and ever since, I've been lucky enough to see you in all your brilliance and beauty.

And I got to fall in love with you.

I smile to myself. I'm already compiling ideas for my speech at our wedding. _Note to self: thank Alice for kissing Jasper. Wait, is that too weird? Nah. We're good, she and Garrett are going strong—we can all laugh about that day now._

"She's a lucky girl." The jeweler smiles at me, his eyes squinty. He points, not at the diamond, but at me. "I see the love all over your face. That's very special."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I'm the lucky one."

He nods. "Good boy. You remember that, you will have a very long, very happy marriage."

* * *

After I pick up the ring, its newly-set diamond a perfect fit, I carry it with me for a few weeks. I don't have a plan, yet, but I have this strange feeling that somehow I'll just know when the right time is, and I don't want to be caught without it when that time shows up.

We've talked about getting married a few times, so I'm confident you _will_ say yes. We've agreed we're in no hurry, but it's a life's-so-busy-it-can-wait kind of patience, not an I'm-not-sure-about-you-forever hesitation.

So, it's always in my pocket, in its dark red velvet box—through my inorganic chemistry labs, at work with me, in the library when I meet with my study group. I grow impatient quickly, wanting to see how it looks on your finger, wanting to see your smile when you say "yes."

I start to get frustrated, looking for that perfect moment to ask you to be my wife, and finding none.

And then, we're sitting on the couch in our cramped apartment, with our textbooks and papers forming wobbly towers on the coffee table, and a few empty beer bottles scattered between them. My hand is in my pocket, rubbing the lid of the little box I carry everywhere, and I realize there's no "perfect moment," because every moment with you is perfect. And whenever I ask you will be special and memorable, because it will be the moment I'll ask you to marry me, and the moment that you'll say yes.

I grab the remote from you and flick the television off.

"Hey! I was watching that."

"I know. But I need to ask you something."

Maybe you hear something in my voice, because you stop trying to grab the remote back from me. Your hand on my knee, you smile. "Okay."

"Bella, I love you."

You smile, waiting. Maybe you already know. Maybe you can hear the way my voice shakes, a little with nerves, but mostly with the excitement I've been trying to suppress for weeks now.

I take your hands, my thumb grazing the knuckles of your right hand, remembering them scraped and bruised, and holding them for the first time with a bag of ice freezing my fingers.

"You know, I think I fell in love with you when you told me you liked me more than you liked banana bread."

You laugh. "I'm pretty sure there was a 'might' in there somewhere. I said I might have liked you more."

"Shush, silly girl. I'm trying to be sweet and stuff."

"Oh, sorry. Carry on."

"Thanks." I chuckle. "It was something so small, but it was something that showed me something really special about you. I thought I was in deep then."

I lick my lips. "Babe, I want to love you more every single day. I want to wake up every morning loving you more than I did the night before." I let go of your hands and bring the prematurely-worn box from my pocket. "Bella, will you marry me? Will you let me love you more every day for the rest of our lives?"

I was right—I'll never forget this moment. I'll never forget your smile, or the tears sparkling in your eyes, or the way your hand shakes as you lift it so I can slide the ring onto your finger.

I'll never forget your answer.

"Obviously."

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**A/N: Thank you for reading, my lovelies! I appreciate all your support and reviews. :)**

**Believey - you're my favourite colour. Thank you for your time, your advice, your honesty, your wisdom, your kindness, and your friendship.**

**Love, Shell x**

* * *

**P.S. What's next? I have another short fic I'm working on. I won't be posting until it's complete, and I'd say it's probably a third done at the moment. **


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